Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yoo Joonghyuk is nineteen when he finally decides to move into a new apartment.

It’s somewhere on the outskirts of Seoul, a little far from his university, but nothing he can’t manage. The commute fee to and from his campus isn’t too bad.

The neighbors are all nice, old women for the most part, and the landlord is decent. There’s an aggravating highschooler down the hall he sometimes sees—but he hears his chuuni shouts more frequently than he sees him, honestly—and the rent’s not at all bad, split half-way with a housemate (apartment-mate? Pseudo-friend?) he met through Han Sooyoung.

His new housemate is quiet. His eyes are black. His hair is just as dark and looks ridiculously soft to the touch. The first time they met, Yoo Joonghyuk had half a mind to reach out and run his fingers through. After the introductions and unpacking, they rarely ever meet, despite being in such close quarters to each other. It probably has something to do with how his housemate never really leaves his room, but Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t mind. In fact, he prefers it this way.

All in all, Yoo Joonghyuk is satisfied with his new living arrangements.

The rowdy neighborhood would be a dealbreaker to many, to the average person, but Yoo Joonghyuk is many things, and an average person is the one thing he is not. Not really.

In the distance, there’s the sound of glass shattering and a shriek following close after. Yoo Joonghyuk frowns, tugging his mask down his chin, and pushes the window open.

The breeze is nice. He can feel it against the stretchy, skin-tight material of his suit. Narrowing his eyes at the faraway steel railing on the rooftop of the building across the road, Yoo Joonghyuk stretches a hand out and shoots out a web.

He launches himself out the window and swings to the top. He sticks to the walls with his fingers. Another web shoots out past his palm, and he pulls himself towards the source of the broken glass.

Yoo Joonghyuk isn’t the average person, but he’d like to think he isn’t too far off, either. Really. He’s just—

“A-Another step, and I’ll blow the clerk’s brains off, Spiderman!”

Sighing tiredly, Yoo Joonghyuk webs the gun out of the newbie robber’s grasp, and punches him square in the jaw.

That one punch was enough to send him flying backwards apparently, his back hitting the wall as he yowls, two of his teeth clattering to the ground. Almost immediately, the bank clerk sinks to his knees by Yoo Joonghyuk’s feet, crying tears of joy and gratitude. He sings praises. Asks Yoo Joonghyuk how he could ever pay him back for saving his life.

“It’s fine,” Yoo Joonghyuk replies impassively. “Just stay out of trouble.”

Short, succinct, to the point.

He’s already shot out another web to get out of the place before any of the authorities show up—chief Lee, he’s heard, is the worst to deal with. Be it in Seoul or his hometown, Spiderman is a disgusting, irredeemable criminal in the eyes of the police.

Which is—a joke, really. All this carefulness to not get caught. All this slipping away from uniform-clad crowds after doing their job for them.

When he swings out of the nearly robbed bank, making his hasty, decently flashy exit, the bank clerk shouts something about waiting and how he insists on paying him back. But, as they all do, the bank clerk’s voice fades away.

Swinging through the city is one of the few things Yoo Joonghyuk will always enjoy. There are tall buildings that help launch him higher, higher, and higher, giving him that supporting lift and refreshing wind as the city bustles busily below. The authorities begin arriving at the scene, their fast-approaching cars and noisy sirens getting louder by the second. They wind up arresting the robber, first and foremost, then look around, briefly interrogate the clerk, and cuss at how they’ve just managed to miss Spiderman.

“By the skin of his teeth!” one of them hisses. “We keep just missing him! How is that possible?”

“Ha! His luck is bound to run out soon!” another hollers, slapping the other’s back. “We’ll get him next time. That insect won’t know what’s coming!”

As he swings farther away in the direction of his apartment, Yoo Joonghyuk scowls.

First of all, spiders aren’t insects. They’re arachnids. If they want to cuss him out, at least get it right. It’s ridiculous and, quite frankly, makes them look a lot more—stupider than usual.

Second of all, all this vigilantism that he’s been doing is nothing bad, and neither is it anything fantastically righteous. Sure, some of the things he does are illegal, like breaking-and-entering and some things he’d need a decently good lawyer to get him out of, but, hey.

He’s not a villain. He’s saved more people than he’s harmed. Pluck a random stranger off the street, ask them who Spiderman is, and they’ll give it to you straight: Superhero. Saved me a few times. The media and police hate him. But even then, he’s not yet a household name. Not yet a superhero known across the galaxy. Which is—fine. Which is something he’s more than fine with, because the fact is, even with all the superpowers and crimefighting, he’s nothing too special. Honest. He’s just…

Well.

He’s just your average, not-so-friendly neighborhood spiderman.

+

Unfortunately, he’s also still a student.

I.

Halfway into the semester, Yoo Joonghyuk wants to die.

It’s almost one in the morning, and he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

His eyes are painfully red with deep, dark bags under them. On his desk is a freakishly and unnecessarily long assignment he needs to complete in three days—and he’d finished this particular assignment before. Several times, actually. Only, the professor for this specific class is pissy and apparently ‘petty and jealous over how handsome Yoo Joonghyuk is’ compared to him, and so had decided to be an asshole exclusively to Yoo Joonghyuk.

(His peers’ words, not his.)

Redo this, the professor had said. No, you don’t—you don’t understand, Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi. This—all of this…! He had said, again and again and again. Once, he had ripped apart Yoo Joonghyuk’s papers, fuming, rolled them up into a ball, and tossed them into a trash can. Bullshit! Absolute bullshit! Did you pay attention to any of my lectures?!

Really, Yoo Joonghyuk hopes for a supervillain of some kind to come sweeping through his university and kidnap this bastard of a professor someday. Who’ll save him? Spiderman?

Just as Yoo Joonghyuk has his face in his hands, wondering what the meaning of life is, the door clicks open. There’s a small laugh.

“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk turns his head and glares. He doubts his housemate can see it, not when the room is shrouded in complete darkness, save for the lamp on Yoo Joonghyuk’s desk. “Is this funny to you?”

Kim Dokja saunters in.

A small, quick update on his housemate: while his initial impression had been of a quiet, reserved, not-at-all bothersome person, the reality was far from the truth. Fast forward a few months of living together and gradual warming up, and Yoo Joonghyuk had learned very quickly how there’s no greater bastard than Kim Dokja.

“It’s hilarious, actually,” Bastard Extraordinaire chimes. An urge to lunge for his neck surges in, and Yoo Joonghyuk takes one long careful breath. “Thank you for asking. Do you know how many people would kill to be in my position? To witness, first-hand, the Yoo Joonghyuk struggling? Genius-slash-top-bachelor no more—your hateclub would’ve loved this.” He sets something down beside Yoo Joonghyuk’s closed palm. Belatedly, Yoo Joonghyuk realizes how he brought two cups of coffee. “Unclench, Yoo Joonghyuk. I came in peace, I think. Heard some of your tragic groans from outside and figured you might need some coffee.”

“You think.” Yoo Joonghyuk grumbles but accepts the peace offering with otherwise no complaints. When his brain finally catches up to Kim Dokja’s words, his eyebrows wrinkle close. “I have a hateclub?”

“Inevitably, what with those looks of yours.” Kim Dokja shrugs, then drags his feet towards Yoo Joonghyuk’s bed. He plops down; it’s soft. “Handsome, smart, and an asshole. How could you not have a hateclub?”

Yoo Joonghyuk thinks to say something but ultimately doesn’t. It’s true, after all; nothing Kim Dokja has said doesn’t make sense.

His reluctant agreement must’ve shown on his face, or perhaps Kim Dokja had picked it apart from the silence as he always does, because a laugh spills out his mouth.

But he doesn’t touch on the subject any further. Instead, he takes a sip of his coffee and offers, “Shitty professor?”

Yoo Joonghyuk shuts his eyes in a tight grimace. It’s really all Kim Dokja needs to piece things together: The shittiest professor. The revelation makes him wince.

“He tears the result of my hard work in front of me and doesn’t tell me what I need to fix,” Yoo Joonghyuk tells him grimly. “If South Korea didn’t have laws against murder—”

“Alright, too far, too far!” Kim Dokja laughs nervously. “Slow down and take a step back. Don’t—never go that far, Yoo Joonghyuk. Cut the guy some slack. He probably has tons of papers to go over; maybe he’s just… perpetually stressed.”

Yoo Joonghyuk gives him a deadpan look, which is—fair. Kim Dokja may have his moments, but he isn’t a total fool. He’s heard of the rumors circulating their campus.

“Then again, word on the grapevine is that he’s been giving you an especially hard time because he’s jealous of your…” he purses his lips, then glances at Yoo Joonghyuk’s face, and then lower—his biceps—and even low—okay, wow. Not there, Kim Dokja. Not there. His gaze flicks back up to his housemate’s perfectly sculpted side profile. “That.”

“That,” Yoo Joonghyuk echoes tiredly, sighing. “Calling me handsome won’t kill you, Kim Dokja.”

Kim Dokja is lucky Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t catch his eyes wandering. “Really? How would you know?”

“Genius-slash-top-bachelor,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeats his earlier words plainly and yet still somehow manages to sound like an arrogant bastard. “Emphasis on genius. That’s how I ‘know’. What kind of genius claims to know something they don’t?”

“You’re talking as if I’m some kind of experiment. A paper, an analysis—whatever, point is: did you do that? Study me?”

“I carried out an observation,” Yoo Joonghyuk runs a hand through his hair, squinting at the scribble of words across the page before grunting and scratching them out. “Plotted you out against my graphs.”

“Very flattering,” Kim Dokja says. “So you studied me.”

“...Unfortunately,” Yoo Joonghyuk concedes.

A grin. “And the results…?”

“Connecting the coordinates together gives you the phrase, Kim Dokja is a fool. Nothing else.”

Kim Dokja’s face scrunches. “I guess I’ll have to retract my claim, then—you definitely aren’t a genius. No, actually, forget I ever said anything positive about your brains and looks.” His voice tinkles. “Genius-slash-top-bachelor? Did I ever say that? There must be something wrong with your ears, Yoo Joonghyuk. The only thing I remember saying—from, what, a few weeks ago?—was how Yoo Joonghyuk was synonymous with egoistic bastard. And it’s still true to this day.”

Yoo Joonghyuk clicks his tongue. “Dishonest fool.”

“Prideful asshole.”

“Rat bastard.”

“Hey—that—you just stole that from Han Sooyoung. At least try to be origi—”

“Nerd.”

Low blow. Kim Dokja gawks at him, silenced.

“You had to go there. Really?”

“My name was on the line.” Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze flickers up briefly, amused. “You’re not going to refute it? That you’re a nerd?”

Embarrassed, Kim Dokja turns away. “Your looks are the only things you have going for you. Ah, damn… Do you know how much of a waste it is? If I had your face, I wouldn’t be here, drinking cheap coffee while consoling my ungrateful housemate.”

“You’re trying to change the topic,” Yoo Joonghyuk observes.

Predictably, Kim Dokja very pointedly doesn’t look at him. There’s a one-sided staredown—Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze bores into the side of his head for a second too long, trying to force him into admitting his dodging, his nonsensical fluster. Yet, a mere two and a half seconds later, Yoo Joonghyuk shakes his head, grumbling, as if to say Fine. I’ll let it go just this once.

“I didn’t ask you to come here and bring me coffee.”

“Should I leave you alone, then?”

“Will you?” Yoo Joonghyuk snaps.

“It depends.”

“It depends,” he sneers, “on your level of bastardry today.”

A startled, amused noise slips from Kim Dokja’s lips. His eyes are wide. Amused. “Sorry, what? Level of—what? Bastardry? Did you just make that up on the spot to spite me—”

“What I meant to say,” Yoo Joonghyuk’s fist clenches around his pen, almost crushing it, “was that, if you would be so kind—”

Kim Dokja cackles loudly, cutting him off. “Who are you and what did you do to Yoo Joonghyuk?”

“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk warns, sharp. With his elbows propped up against his desk, he drops his head and sweeps a hand over his hair. And then, through gritted teeth: “I would. Appreciate it. If you left me. Alone.”

For a while, Kim Dokja seems to consider it. “Mm… It sounds like a nice thing to do. Something kind.”

“Because it is.”

“Unfortunately,” he sighs in faux regret. Oh, woe is he. “I’m afraid I’ve filled up my being-nice-to-Yoo-Joonghyuk quota for the day.”

Yoo Joonghyuk isn’t sure what he expected. “Really.”

Kim Dokja narrows his eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me,” he says. “It’s not like I’m lying. I made you coffee. Unprompted! Because I’m just such a—such a kind friend and housemate, and you never even thanked me.”

It’s a fair point. And so Yoo Joonghyuk should just click his tongue and begrudgingly admit that he’s right, but that goes against Moral Code #1001: Never admit that Kim Dokja is right.

“You’ve done one nice thing,” Yoo Joonghyuk rebukes, exasperated, “and your ‘quota’ has been filled?”

“Plenty,” Kim Dokja answers brightly.

Yoo Joonghyuk throws him a quick look over his shoulder. Kim Dokja rolls his eyes.

“Fine, it’s ridiculous, I admit, but the point is—” he sets his coffee on a bedside table, before dropping his back against soft, chic-grey sheets, “—I did you a favor, so it’s only fair that you return it.”

For a while, Yoo Joonghyuk considers it. And then, his nose scrunches in an unsaid, unpleasant, and not at all dignified agreement. “You’re saying I should let you laze around here. On my bed?”

“I’m relaxing. And, yes.” Kim Dokja rolls to his side, stares at Yoo Joonghyuk. “You’re going to get all wrinkly if you keep frowning like that, you know. Age badly.”

Yoo Joonghyuk chooses to ignore his words, sighs, and pinches the skin between his furrowed brows. “Of all things, why—”

“Your bed’s always been softer than mine,” Kim Dokja cuts him off far too easily. Yoo Joonghyuk can hear the grin in his voice. “An eye for an eye, you know?”

He huffs. “That’s a phrase used for revenge, you fool.”

“Maybe that’s what I’m doing right now—getting revenge,” Kim Dokja says.

“And what have I done to deserve this scathingly evil retribution?”

“Maybe today’s just not your lucky day.” He reaches towards the knob of one of Yoo Joonghyuk’s bedside drawers. “Is the coffee I made for you the only good thing that’s happened to you today? Your professor’s being an asshole, you just had an existential crisis, and some guy is annoying you right now.”

“Some guy,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeats. His voice is steady, but Kim Dokja is now close enough to identify the miniscule amused lilt at the end.

“Your housemate,” Kim Dokja clarifies smoothly—his lips lift. “Roommate? Apartment-mate? Whatever. You know him. I heard that he’s decently tall. Not as tall as you, but we can’t all have your crazy genes.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Really,” Kim Dokja says, and then makes a show of pondering: a short yet thoughtful pause, a hum, squinted eyes. “He has… black hair too, if I’m not mistaken. Black hair, black eyes, and these—these huge eyebags, most of the time.”

Ah. So he’s self aware.

“Word on the street is that he’s a genius, too—at the cost of a spotless face! Poor guy. Of course, I’m not sure you’d be able to relate to that part, but, wow—this guy has a lot of things in common with you. Haven’t you seen him?”

“What I have seen is a fool,” Yoo Joonghyuk scowls deeply, swiveling his chair around and abandoning his assignment momentarily. Across from him, Kim Dokja sips his coffee, curling into himself slightly. “A fool who’s cold, apparently.”

Kim Dokja flashes him a small grin. There’s the slightest tremble in his shoulders. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Do you have a photo of him?”

“There’s a mirror in the bathroom.”

“I’ll break it if you bring it out.”

Yoo Joonghyuk gives him a once-over, and frowns.

“With those limbs.”

This bastard. “I will,” Kim Dokja beams satirically, a vein throbbing on his forehead, “throw it to the floor. Hard.”

“And who will pay for damages?”

“I will,” Kim Dokja snaps. His coffee has been set down on the bedside table. Then, he swivels around, squinting, bending down just slightly to scavenge through Yoo Joonghyuk’s many drawers. “Out of the goodness of my heart. Touching, isn’t it? But that’s enough of that. Hurry up and tell me where you keep your valuables, Yoo Joonghyuk.”

Yoo Joonghyuk narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to rob me, Kim Dokja?”

“This is part of my revenge,” Kim Dokja tells him. “It’s Step 3 of my revenge, actually. You’ve been a little slow on the uptake, but yes, definitely: I’m here to rob you.”

“Of my blankets,” says Yoo Joonghyuk.

“Of a blanket,” Kim Dokja corrects, clicking his tongue lightly. “I want the finest, softest silk. The warmest blanket you have. Got any?”

There’s a displeased look on Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. If there’s anything worse than admitting that Kim Dokja is right, it’s this. “Are you ordering me around right now?”

“I’m exercising my rights as the best housemate you could ever have,” Kim Dokja replies breezily, matter-of-factly. As he shuffles through the bottom drawers, his words are a little muffled. ”Is a nice, warm blanket too much to ask for? I mean—you could bargain, if you’d like, and if you had any social skills. Alas…”

“Kim Dokja.”

Kim Dokja stretches back to his full height, a laugh on the tip of his tongue. He pivots around. “What? You know it’s—”

Kim Dokja makes a startled sound.

Briefly, his vision is obscured as something soft is thrown over him, his shoulders, falling over his head. His fingers curl subconsciously around the edges of the material, holding it close.

“With this, you’ve successfully robbed me,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, adjusting the blanket around Kim Dokja’s shoulders for a moment, before taking one long, good look at him. A tuft of hair is peeking out on the top of his head, so Yoo Joonghyuk smooths it down. “You get cold easily, yet you come into my room, knowing full well that I like to keep my room freezing. There should be a limit to your foolishness.”

The shock on Kim Dokja’s face lasts for only a second before it’s replaced with his earlier grin. “You’re not telling me to leave.”

“It’s bothersome.” Yoo Joonghyuk waves him off, sitting back down at his desk. “Do whatever you want.”

“What I want,” Kim Dokja stumbles back onto Yoo Joonghyuk’s bed and lies there, cheek against the bedsheets, “is for you to fix your sleep schedule.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s trademark scowl is back in full force. “Ironic,” he says flatly. “Since when were you qualified to say that, Kim Dokja?”

“What’s that supposed to…? Hey!” Kim Dokja jerks, glaring. “I’ve been trying—and you know how hard it’s been for me to cut back on my webnovels!”

“Han Sooyoung told me you still comment on her newest chapters at midnight.”

“...Only occasionally!”

“Often. She told me herself, Kim Dokja. Any more, and I’ll have to intervene. Again.”

“I made you coffee tailored to your depressing tastes, helped you through an existential crisis, and sacrificed my precious time for sleep for you, and this is how you repay me?” Kim Dokja asks, betrayed. “By threatening me?”

Yoo Joonghyuk makes a face at that.

“That—!” Kim Dokja catches that look. He sits up, bristles. “I’m not being dramatic! Stop that train of thought immediately, Yoo Joonghyuk!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You implied everything with that face you just made!”

You must be imagining things, Yoo Joonghyuk wants to say, but then there’s a sudden ringing in his ears and a splitting headache that cuts through his thoughts. His face twists.

“No, not that face,” Kim Dokja says, forgetting Yoo Joonghyuk’s distinct lack of a funny bone. “Try… a little more subtle. Your expression wasn’t this grave.”

There’s a break-in his ears have picked up on far, far into the distance. Someone is shrieking, high-pitched and blood-curdling and echoing, and the sound doesn’t leave for what feels like far too long. The shrill noise has him almost tumbling to the ground, clutching his ears.

Kim Dokja finally realizes that Yoo Joonghyuk is truly in pain. Worried, he reaches for him. “Hey, are you—”

“Shut up,” Yoo Joonghyuk inhales sharply. “Just—shut up for a moment, Kim Dokja. Your voice is worsening my migraine.”

Kim Dokja flinches. “What? My voice is…”

Yoo Joonghyuk wrenches an eye open just in time to see the hurt that flashes through his expression.

“Oh,” says Kim Dokja, then, as if he’s just reached a realization. He clears his throat, gathering himself, shaky. “Shit, I—I overstepped, didn’t I?”

Fuck, Yoo Joonghyuk thinks. That wasn’t what—

“I didn’t mean—” he tries explaining himself, but there’s another scream, just as loud and just as jarring, and the headache forces him to cut himself off. Hurriedly, he plugs his fingers into his ears and breathes in deeply.

“Listen,” he tries continuing, before concluding in a startling point five seconds: He needs to keep it short. Right now, he can barely even think in peace. His mind scrambles for words, decides on: “I’ll cook omurice in the morning for breakfast, so just—”

An echo splits his head open, interrupting him. Yoo Joonghyuk clutches the hairs near his ears, white-knuckled, palms pressed harsher against them, a desperate attempt to seal the shrieks away.

“Leave,” he manages out eventually, “Just leave, Kim Dokja. It’s not a good night.”

“Morning, you mean,” Kim Dokja murmurs.

“What?”

“It’s not a good morning, you mean,” Kim Dokja says, quiet. “It’s almost two, Yoo Joonghyuk. And I can just—just stay here in silence if my voice is,” his mouth presses into a line, “stressing you out too much.”

And that—that isn’t it. That’s not true. It’s never been true.

Kim Dokja’s fingers are trembling around the cold marble of his mug. He loops a finger tighter around the handle, eyes glued to the ground, and takes in a breath. “Having someone else be there for you, physically or not, is comforting, isn’t it?” He lets out a laugh, forced and dry. “Come on—you know me, Yoo Joonghyuk. I can be as quiet as a mouse when I want to be. I mean, I usually am, so—”

Abruptly, he stops in his tracks. It shows on his face—how glass seems to break, crack, shatter all across. How he pulls back, back, back and stumbles a little on his feet when he tries to stand up.

“What—” a breath; something tender, “What am I saying?”

Yoo Joonghyuk swallows down something that feels a lot like a thorn.

“...Kim Dokja.”

Kim Dokja shakes his head. There’s the thud of his feet against the floor, quick, rushed, in a hurry. And then the mug on Yoo Joonghyuk’s desk is gone.

“You just said you didn’t want to be bothered,” Kim Dokja says, turning away. Yoo Joonghyuk can only see his ears. Kim Dokja carries both their mugs with one hand, and inhales shakily, deeply. “Sorry. I’ll just go and put these in—”

Yoo Joonghyuk grabs Kim Dokja’s wrist, effectively cutting him off.

A surprised noise leaves Kim Dokja’s throat before he glances back around, freezing in place. The ringing in Yoo Joonghyuk’s ears has calmed a little, but his expression is still sour, his jaw clenched and his teeth gritted.

“Kim Dokja,” is what he says first, searching his face. His mouth feels dry, trying to find the right words. “I… like your voice, you fool.”

And he doesn’t know this—how would he?—but Kim Dokja’s heart does this little flip in his ribcage.

“Oh,” Kim Dokja says, lighter. Yoo Joonghyuk can see him relax, vaguely. “That. That’s surprising.”

Yoo Joonghyuk grumbles, looks away. “It’s just—” His hand loosens around Kim Dokja’s wrist, drops down until their palms are against each other. And then some more, until Yoo Joonghyuk’s pinky dangles on Kim Dokja’s without meaning to as neither of them move.

It’s just— he considers to say, for a moment. The drawbacks of being Spiderman—

The rational part of his brain stops him there. Tells him, Will Kim Dokja believe you? Tells him, He’ll think you’re joking. He’ll think you’re pulling his arm. Call you a bastard for it. But then it asks in a smaller, quieter voice, Why do you want to tell him? And Yoo Joonghyuk has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep himself from saying his answer aloud. Has to clench his fists a little tighter, his pinky tightening just the slightest bit around Kim Dokja’s.

If he revealed everything to just one person, how much weight would be lifted off his shoulders?

If he told Kim Dokja about his identity, about the near-constant, migraine-inducing ringing in his ears, and the sleepless nights and the real reason he disappears so often so suddenly, how much easier would everything be?

I’m Spiderman. My five senses are heightened, and everything gets a little too much for me sometimes. I say the wrong things when it gets a little too much.

There’s this bone-deep secret he has told practically no one. An unforgettable weight only he carries, and the exhaustion that comes with.

I’m Spiderman, almost slips out. And it could. It could, and he finds himself wanting it to for a brief moment. Perhaps, then, he could finally say, could finally confess and feel it a little easier to breathe: It’s hard being this way. But how would anyone understand? How could they?

And so: “The professor and his assignment were getting to me. I was just stressed,” is what he ends up saying, lowering his hand. “I’m planning to go out for a quick run to blow off some steam.”

“Oh,” Kim Dokja says.

A relieved smile blooms across his face. Through the small crack of the door he’s put his foot through, a small stream of light has slipped into the room, and—forget everything. Just—forget everything.

Here, Yoo Joonghyuk’s thoughts skid to a halt.

“You had me worried for a second there. Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Kim Dokja shakes his head, huffing. The curve of his nose. The chime of his voice. His eyes, alight, before they crease just slightly. “I forgot how bad you were with words. Go ahead. It’s about time I go to sleep anyway, so—”

Kim Dokja tilts his head, stepping behind the door. It’s easier to see his lips like this. Easier to see how they’ve quirked into a smaller, more sheepish smile, and god it’s—it’s—

“Goodnight?”

Yoo Joonghyuk remembers to breathe just in time.

He blinks, snapped back to reality. And nevermind how his stomach has flipped. Nevermind how he swallows, he bets, loud enough for the sound to echo through hallways. Nevermind how his neck feels hotter by the second despite the freezing room. For all the words in the dictionary, Yoo Joonghyuk has none, and so answers with a stiff nod.

Kim Dokja is skeptical—for a second, he doesn’t buy it. “Yoo Joonghyuk,” he says. His gaze flicks to Yoo Joonghyuk’s desk. And then, he hesitates, his fingers closing tenderly around the doorframe, before he takes a deep breath and steels himself. “Are you…” he licks his lips, then shakes his head. “You’re going to be okay, aren’t you? I mean, you’re… you’re Yoo Joonghyuk, after all.”

“I am Yoo Joonghyuk,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, a bit stupidly. “I mean—yes. Yes, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m right next door if you need anything. Like, if you’re too lazy to make your own coffee, I’m feeling especially, um, generous tonight, so—”

“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk interjects, grunting. “Thank you,” he says. “For the coffee, and for the company.”

It’s entirely uncharacteristic of him. Kim Dokja looks at him as if he’s just grown a second head. He opens his mouth.

“No, I haven’t been replaced by a robot, alien, or shapeshifting lizard person.”

He closes his mouth.

“Um,” he says, then. “I should probably go now, right? Sorry—no, bye? Goodnight for the second time in a row and—”

“Kim Dokja.”

Kim Dokja shuts up, embarrassed.

Yoo Joonghyuk sighs. “Go.”

Kim Dokja scoffs lightly. “Couldn’t have said it any nicer, could you?”

“Dokja.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” His muscles visibly relax as a laugh falls out. “Goodnight, Yoo Joonghyuk,” he murmurs, “For the third and final time tonight.”

After Kim Dokja leaves, Yoo Joonghyuk still feels a little lightheaded from that sheepish quirk of his lips. Still feels a little dizzy from their exchange, and the sight of Kim Dokja’s ears burning as hot as his neck.

For a minute, he lingers. And then, he shrugs it off, his face contorting, before a shriek tears through his eardrums once more—he winces, jolting as if someone just doused him with cold water.

Right, shit. Crime, righteousness, power and responsibility—all that. He needs to go.

Yoo Joonghyuk rushes out of the apartment. Shuts the door behind him with just enough force to make sure Kim Dokja hears him leaving for his ‘quick run’—he doesn’t want him suspecting anything. Not yet.

Down the hallway to the right, in the corner closest to the janitor’s closet, there is a large window that the tenants rarely ever near. After Yoo Joonghyuk makes sure the coast truly is clear, he unlocks it, pushes it open, and leaps out the building.

The screams never really stop, but that’s just how crime is—it doesn’t sleep.

A few swings in, a few webs out, his migraine comes back, splitting, thundering through his head. Yoo Joonghyuk tumbles against some concrete, some bricks, because of it. Everything is loud, loud, loud, and the exhaustion from the past few nights he spent awake and tireless seems to finally catch up on him at this moment. It’s terrible. He can’t afford to rest even then.

Such is the fate of a superhero.

+

When he comes home after a ruthlessly and needlessly tiring chase around dead and split ends, Yoo Joonghyuk almost drops dead against his desk chair.

He leans back, stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, and curses out tonight’s newly webbed criminal and his professor all in one thought. It takes a while, but he finally wills himself to glance at his desk.

He was expecting to see his papers scattered across the flat wooden surface. He had been preparing for another migraine and mini early-life crisis ever since he took his shoes off at the door. But it looks like he didn’t have to do any of these things.

Instead of the mess he’d left behind hours ago, his papers are in a neat stack on the left. There’s a plastic container in the middle, and a yellow post-it plastered right on top of it. Yoo Joonghyuk snags it. Squints at it.

Bought this while I was waiting for you. Figured some food might make you feel better.

There’s only one possible perpetrator that comes to mind, and his handwriting is exactly as Yoo Joonghyuk had imagined: neat yet clumsy, lines thinner towards the sharp edges. For a long while, Yoo Joonghyuk lingers on these words, this note, and then, his desk.

Three things he gathers from this:

1. Kim Dokja was waiting for him to come home. (?!)
2. Yoo Joonghyuk feels kind of—warm? Inside. What the fuck? He didn’t know he was capable of that.
3. Kim Dokja was waiting for him to come home. (?!?!?!)

For a solid five seconds, Yoo Joonghyuk has a glare-off with the cheap convenience store kimbap and sandwiches on his desk. He hates food made by other people. He hates instant food bought from convenience stores even more. He’d rather die than eat anything like it.

Five seconds later, he finds himself standing in front of the microwave in the kitchen, warming up the disgusting food his accursed housemate bought for him. A few minutes later, when he swallows down the kimbap first, he cringes as the taste falls flat against his tongue. Each time he bites into each of the sandwiches, he feels his tongue cry out for help and mercy.

The food is disgusting. Yoo Joonghyuk is having the worst time of his life. He isn’t even hungry.

He makes sure not to leave a single crumb, and wipes his plate clean anyway.

Chapter Text

II.

A psychopath with too much money and time on his hands is what occupies Yoo Joonghyuk one smoldering evening. Specifically: Doc Ong, Spiderman’s official arch nemesis and number one villain. Part-time annoyance-slash-chaebol-slash-scientist, full-time metallic land octopus.

Around them, a flurry of people shriek and rush out the street in a panic. Doc Ong cackles madly and throws a car at an innocent lamppost with his mechanic, elongated limb.

“You can’t stop me, Spiderman!” Doc Ong lurches a claw.

Just a week ago, Yoo Joonghyuk had pummeled him into nothing but a scrap of metal. Thought that was the end of the notorious villain, but no; he just had to come back.

“This new form of mine was engineered by the world’s top scientists! I’m feeling generous today, so if you surrender now, I’ll give you a swift and painless death!”

Fucking cockroach. Yoo Joonghyuk scowls harshly under his mask.

“Whatever chemicals you were exposed to for that new form,” he says, evading the metal claws, “have clearly made you delusional.”

“Ha! You think you’re funny?”

“I say what’s on my mind,” Yoo Joonghyuk answers plainly. “Therapists advocate for this kind of thing. You should try it some time.”

“Killing you—” Doc Ong leaps for Yoo Joonghyuk’s throat. “—is the only therapy I’d ever need! So hurry up and die, Spiderman!”

Swinging past him, Yoo Joonghyuk dodges far too easily.

“Try actual therapy,” he retorts blandly, and then wraps his webs around one of the villain’s metal limbs. “It’d do you some good.”

“Ack!”

The villain flails, his center of gravity tilted, obscured, almost gone. Hurried, he juts out another limb and uncaringly lurches it towards the ground. Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes follow it, dart haphazardly to the side and—fuck.

There’s a civilian—Yoo Joonghyuk only catches their blurred silhouette in the flicker of a second—inches away from getting done in by sharp robotic claws. Quickly, then, Yoo Joonghyuk dips down and grabs them by their waist. The civilian yelps, limbs scrambling before settling vice around Yoo Joonghyuk’s neck. Yoo Joonghyuk holds them a little closer, a little tighter, and glances back over his shoulder: Doc Ong has successfully regained his balance. Shit. He needs to deal with him, but before that—

“Are you hurt?” Yoo Joonghyuk asks first, over the wind, to the civilian in his arms as he speeds up his swings. It’s almost as if they’re flying. The civilian’s arms tremble wildly as they soar, so Yoo Joonghyuk slows down. Lets them take a breather, and rounds as many sharp corners as possible in hopes of losing Doc Ong.

Three, five seconds pass. The civilian inhales shakily, the back of their head familiar in a way that has Yoo Joonghyuk staring yet cannot put his finger on why that is so. Black hair is incredibly common everywhere in the world, but this softness—

“Spiderman,” the civilian exhales, then, pulling away to face Yoo Joonghyuk, and—oh.

Fuck.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s mind goes shit, shit, shit when he finally recognizes this voice, this face, this hair and this damned waist.

“You saved me just in time,” says Kim Dokja. “A second later, and I would’ve—” His breath hitches.

Vaguely, Kim Dokja looks as if he wants to say something more—thank you, perhaps, probably—but his eyes slide from Yoo Joonghyuk’s mask downward, something catching in his throat.

And then his hand rises. An unconscious act. 

“Oh,” he mutters appreciatively, “Oh, wow…”

Mortifyingly, Yoo Joonghyuk feels a traveling hand, and then a squeeze to one tit.

“Your pecs are insane.”

Yoo Joonghyuk will fucking drop him. Swear to god.

He grits his teeth. “Hands. Off.”

Unfortunately for Yoo Joonghyuk and fortunately for Kim Dokja, Yoo Joonghyuk is as much of a superhero as he is an asshole, and so ultimately does not let him plummet to an untimely death. Years of saving lives does that to you—make you soft. Kind of.

For a few seconds, Kim Dokja, current holder of the Stupidest Man Alive title, blinks foolishly at him, not understanding. Yoo Joonghyuk can hear the gears in his head turning with the speed of a goddamn snail.

What, Kim Dokja’s face is saying, confused. But then—

“Oh.” His face explodes. A flaming red. Erupting lava. “Oh, fuck.”

He lets go, hands floundering in the air. Around him, Yoo Joonghyuk’s arm tightens to keep him from falling.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me—”

His words cut off with a yelp when the ever-so-altruistic Spiderman plunges down between Seoul skyscrapers with a deep scowl, petty.

“I’m sorry!” Kim Dokja braces himself, eyes squeezed shut and limbs scrambling around Yoo Joonghyuk’s neck. “I really am! I-I’ve learnt my lesson, so please let me down!”

“Quiet, you fool,” Yoo Joonghyuk hisses. He holds Kim Dokja tighter, despite. “I’m not punishing you,” he lies, bastard that he is, and then follows it up with a half-truth: “The villain is chasing us, and I can’t find a safe place to put you down.”

“Oh!” exclaims Kim Dokja. The tension seeps out of him. “Oh,” he says again, his lips curling up into a small, relieved smile. But then his face morphs right after, and he looks gravely offended. “Hold on—did you just call me stupid?”

Yoo Joonghyuk clicks his tongue, whips his head to the side. Force of habit, he thinks to himself, ruefully, as his lips have settled into a line. The wind cuts, warps through strands of Kim Dokja’s hair. His fringe obscures Yoo Joonghyuk’s vision momentarily. And it’s enough of an excuse for Yoo Joonghyuk, apparently, to sever his web and drop the two of them harshly down for—giggles.

“You’re imagining things, Civilian-ssi,” he says.

And, well. It’s—it’s not exactly for giggles. That’s not very Yoo Joonghyuk-esque, after all, no. The truth is, he’s deathly petty. Sue him. Anyone who knows him would know this. That’s all there is to it.

Only, Kim Dokja doesn’t seem to expect it. Because besides the authorities and irritating journalists, who would ever figure how large of an asshole Spiderman truly was?

Shoulders trembling, his hands thrash. The air hisses against his skin. He feels it scorching him, digging into his tendons and wrenching the air out of his lungs. He reaches over Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder. Grapples at his back, nails digging into spandex. An eye peeks over. Sees how they’re hundreds of feet up in the air; can’t help but imagine falling. And the world tilts.

“Please,” Kim Dokja croaks out, his head lolling against Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder. His face is pressed in, against, refusing to see. “I can’t—” his cracked lips move around ghosts of words, tremulous breaths; Yoo Joonghyuk feels them against him, “It’s—it’s too high up—please—”

…Shit.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s nerves buzz. He’s alert, but for more reasons than one. He clutches the man in his arms as his spideysense thrums through his bones. Get down. Get down, it’s saying. Dodge. Drop harshly down. Evade. Evade!

And so he does. And so he feels how Kim Dokja falters in his hold as he does. They narrowly escape Doc Ong’s attack, but Doc Ong is quick to launch another right after: he swipes a giant metallic hand across the small disperse of buildings, felling lampposts and tearing through glass walls.

None of his attacks land. He cusses, “Damn you, Spiderman!”

Yoo Joonghyuk tries swinging faster, farther away. There’s a twinge in his chest. His stomach flipping for all the wrong reasons. Kim Dokja cowers close against him. His breaths are quick, hurried, struggling.

“Breathe—” Yoo Joonghyuk twists a fist into the side of his shirt, “Breathe me in,” he rasps, searching frantically for some shadowed corner they can hide away in. “Breathe in, out. With me. Focus on me and nothing else. Got it?”

The wind is merciless. Yoo Joonghyuk presses Kim Dokja closer to him, shields him from it, and then shoots out another web and begins swinging closer to the ground. Kim Dokja gives him a small, shaky nod. Okay. Okay.

Tap, tap, tap—Yoo Joonghyuk runs across busy roads, the soles of his feet burning from scalding sunroofs. Screams surround them like falling dominoes as he jumps from car to car. He breathes in, out, in, out—it’s hard, running for his life whilst trying to calmly execute breathing exercises. In the corner of his eye, Yoo Joonghyuk watches Kim Dokja try following him, the uncertain rises and falls of his chest, and cups his nape with his other hand.

They speed up. Yoo Joonghyuk offers warmth through a spandex-covered palm.

Hazy-eyed, Kim Dokja scrambles at his back. “The villain—”

“He doesn’t exist,” Yoo Joonghyuk cuts in, insisting, and presses Kim Dokja’s head into the slope of his shoulder. Don’t look, he’s saying. “To you,” he reiterates. “He doesn’t exist to you. Ignore him. All that matters—” Yoo Joonghyuk swallows; inhales sharply. Kim Dokja follows that, too. “Is you. All that matters is you. Keep breathing. Ignore everything else.”

They slip into a small street to the side in a flurry of movement. In this chaos (honking cars, their doors flying open as their occupants rush out, shrieking), they manage to lose Doc Ong. Kim Dokja holds his breath—Yoo Joonghyuk tugs at his shirt as if to rip it out of him. To say, It’s fine, you fool. Didn’t I tell you? Keep breathing, goddamnit.

There’s the clatter of metal against metal. Mechanic whirrs heading closer.

“Where are you, Spiderman!”

Mechanic whirrs passing them, then.

His fingers latch onto brick walls. Silently, he crawls to a deeper corner. It’s darker, a little higher up, but any lower would alert Doc Ong; his iron limbs slither into unreachable grounds, but they’re not long enough to stretch up, up, up. So this is necessary. So, despite how Kim Dokja might have reacted in return, they can’t go back down. Not for now.

Eventually, Doc Ong is gone.

Not entirely, but far away enough that Yoo Joonghyuk’s enhanced hearing can barely pick up on his footsteps. With the coast clear, Yoo Joonghyuk jumps down to the ground, holding Kim Dokja up and closer. His legs are wrapped tightly around Yoo Joonghyuk’s torso, his chin over his shoulder and his arms fastened around Yoo Joonghyuk’s neck.

Yoo Joonghyuk clears his throat. “Civilian-ssi,” he says. “We’re back on the ground.”

There’s no response. Yoo Joonghyuk frowns.

“Civilian-ssi,” he tries again, but it’s no use.

Kim Dokja hasn’t stopped clinging to him or struggling to breathe, still shaking uncontrollably. Finally, Yoo Joonghyuk realizes his erratic behavior and hastily pulls away, trying to get a good look at him. But Kim Dokja holds onto him for dear life, desperate. Clutching. It’s worse than when they were in the sky.

Yoo Joonghyuk grips his shoulders. “Kim Dokja.” He shakes him. “Kim Dokja!”

The lost, crazed look in Kim Dokja’s eyes doesn’t so much as falter, and Yoo Joonghyuk’s jaw tenses. Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck. What should he do? What can he do? Kim Dokja looks too far gone. The worst Yoo Joonghyuk has ever seen him—the worst attack he’s ever seen the man have, and he hasn’t the slightest idea on how to reel his mind back in. Shit!

Han Sooyoung would know. She always does. But contacting her like this, asking her and eventually letting the details of his Spiderman escapades slip, would undoubtedly expose his identity. He can’t risk it. Come on, Yoo Joonghyuk, think.

How do you act when someone loses themselves in front of you like this? How do you comfort someone in the first place? What should you do? Where should he soothe? Where should his hands go? What should he say? How does—how do you—

Ah.

He strikes Kim Dokja flat across his face with a quarter of his full strength.

“Pull yourself together, Kim Dokja!”

Kim Dokja’s breath hitches—he’s back.

His limbs loosen around Yoo Joonghyuk, and he pulls back with a shocked, disoriented look.

“Spiderman.” He blinks at Yoo Joonghyuk. “What… How did… Where are…”

He brings his hand up to his cheek, to the red, palm-shaped mark on his cheek. Touches it lightly, winces. Guilt surges through Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest.

“We’re back on the ground,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, and Kim Dokja glances down. “Your cheek—I had to wake you up, so I—” He sucks in a breath.

“It’s—it’s fine,” Kim Dokja tells him. “Really.”

Kim Dokja lets go of Yoo Joonghyuk and stands back on his feet, wobbling. Yoo Joonghyuk grips his arm, helps steady him.

Kim Dokja throws him a small, grateful smile. “You just saved my life and got me out of a panic attack. If anything, I should be thanking you.” Yoo Joonghyuk remains silent, and so Kim Dokja adds, “You had no way of knowing about my… fear of heights.”

What absolute bullshit.

They’ve been living together for months, and he had no way of knowing such a thing?

Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulders slump, trembling; he counts the seconds, rewinds the slap and the chase and the running away. His thoughts, then, at that moment—how he worried over his secret identity, first and foremost, instead of Kim Dokja.

“Um,” says Kim Dokja, sheepishly, unaware of Yoo Joonghyuk’s inner turmoil, “Sorry for, uh, all of this. How could I ever repay you?”

Yoo Joonghyuk frowns deeply. “What could someone like you do?”

Kim Dokja blinks, lets out a surprised breath. “Wow. You became a superhero with that attitude?”

“I became a superhero,” Yoo Joonghyuk grits his teeth, “Spiderman, to help people. Not the other way around.”

An honest-to-god, long-suffering groan.

“You sound horribly pretentious. You realize that, don’t you?”

No answer. With a sigh, Kim Dokja glances away, scratching the back of his neck.

“Look,” he begins, red creeping up his neck for some unknown, unfathomable reason—Yoo Joonghyuk had only slapped his cheek, not his neck. “I know you probably save thousands of people daily, and they probably ask how they can return the favor just as I did. And I know I’m not a—a superhero like you, or some rich big shot, but… if there’s anything I could—”

“You almost died,” Yoo Joonghyuk seethes, clenching his fists, “because of me. Several feet above the ground. You—you almost died while I was carrying you, Kim Dokja. And then again, just now—”

“Almost died?” Kim Dokja whips back toward him. “No, what? I was breaking down, at most. Having a panic attack. I wasn’t actually on the verge of a heart att—hold on.” He narrows his eyes. “...How do you know my name?”

…Shit.

“I’m not wearing a name card, I left my student ID at home, and there’s no way I told you my name earlier—not when I was too busy panicking—” He inhales sharply, deeply.

A beat.

And then, “Do we know each other?”

“No.” Lamely, Yoo Joonghyuk pitches his voice lower to avoid any chances of Kim Dokja recognizing him.

(Ridiculous. It’s a little too late for that, isn’t it?)

Kim Dokja stares at him, unimpressed.

“...Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk ends up conceding. By now, you’d think it’d be easy enough to connect the dots. Other than the suit, Yoo Joonghyuk never changed much of anything else of himself, after all. So for someone like Kim Dokja, who is arguably the closest person to him as of now, it should click already: Yoo Joonghyuk = Spiderman. No rocket science knowledge needed.

Thankfully, however, Kim Dokja is still the current holder of the Stupidest Man Alive title, and just can’t seem to put two and two together.

God bless this fool of a man. Yoo Joonghyuk clears his throat before Kim Dokja can speak any further.

“The villain is still out there,” he says. He shoots out a web to the side. “I need to catch him before anyone else gets hurt.”

“Huh? I still have—”

“You can repay me by keeping out of trouble. Goodbye.”

“Wait—Spiderman!”

Yoo Joonghyuk swings away.

+

As much as Yoo Joonghyuk hates to admit it, Doc Ong is a formidable villain. Their fight lasted hours, ended as the last dregs of evening wisped away to make room for the night. Of course, he ended up victorious; at the end of the fight, Yoo Joonghyuk had delivered the villain all nice and prettily wrapped in his webs as an early Christmas present to his beloved, adoring police buddies. Doc Ong was stored carefully away in some max security prison by the authorities after. Safe to say, although they’re incompetent at their jobs, their prisons aren’t too shabby, so Doc Ong won’t be getting out any time soon. Hopefully.

But that’s enough of that. For now, he’s exhausted. Exhaustion is leaking out of every orifice of his body. The door to his apartment greets him gloomily, but just as Yoo Joonghyuk reaches to grab the knob, it opens before him, and his eyes close painfully shut by instinct.

“Ah, Yoo Joonghyuk! I was wondering when you’d get home!”

The moon is high up in the sky. There isn’t a single cloud covering it. Clearly, the morning’s entirely gone, so why, in god’s good name, is the fucking sun shining out of Kim Dokja’s ass?

Was it possible for him to look this happy in the first place? What the fuck? The most happiness Yoo Joonghyuk has seen him exude was when Han Sooyoung mass-released ten new chapters of her webnovel, but she’s currently on a hiatus, so this can’t possibly be because of that. So that begs the question: What the fuck has him beaming like this?

He doesn’t have to wonder for long.

At the speed of light, Kim Dokja tugs him towards their living room and sits him down on their couch. 

To Yoo Joonghyuk’s absolute horror, there is a conspiracy wall in the middle of the room. A cork board with, WHO’S UNDER THAT MASK? in large, bright red and capital letters at the top. In the very middle is a blurry picture of Spiderman. Around this picture is a myriad of other pictures of some people Yoo Joonghyuk recognizes and some he does not. A chill runs down his spine.

He doesn’t so much as lift a pinky, though; far too exhausted from a day of nonstop fighting (physically, with his earlier villain; verbally, with his asshole professor), Yoo Joonghyuk only sighs and lets Kim Dokja ramble away.

“I met Spiderman,” Kim Dokja tells him first, excited. “Personally. We had a one-on-one conversation, a really long one. Can you believe it?”

“Wow,” Yoo Joonghyuk replies, the most interested man in the world. “I can’t believe it.”

And then Kim Dokja goes on to tell him about the rest of it: the conspiracy board, how he saved him, and how he’s a bit of an asshole, but I get why people like him, anyway.

Yoo Joonghyuk listens, stares, and then stares some more. The minutes pass, feeling like hours. The hours pass, feeling like minutes. Time ticks and flows, and Kim Dokja’s voice sounds, feels like a soft blanket—it has always been this way, and so Yoo Joonghyuk can’t help it: his head drops. Lolls against the couch. He tries blinking away his lethargy, his vision swarming before him, until it finally focuses and he is met with a frowning Kim Dokja.

It irks him. Yoo Joonghyuk frowns back.

“What?” he asks, wary.

“You’re less handsome than yesterday,” Kim Dokja says.

Yoo Joonghyuk wonders if he really should throw him out the nearest window.

Next to him, the couch dips. Suddenly, there’s a hand cupping the back of his head, pulling his head down to rest against a sweater-covered shoulder. And then, fingers running through his hair.

“Another headache?” Kim Dokja huffs, seemingly all-knowing. “Is it because of that bastard of a professor again?”

Yoo Joonghyuk is stock-still. Has been shocked into silence. Stunned. His heartrate kicks into full gear.

Kim Dokja clicks his tongue. “I swear, the next time I meet Spiderman, I’ll make sure to ask him to lead one of his villains to that asshole professor of yours.”

Because Yoo Joonghyuk hasn’t gone completely braindead, he manages out, “How are you so sure Spiderman will listen to you?”

“I know him,” Kim Dokja tells him. Grumbling, he shifts and reaches around, reaches his other hand into Yoo Joonghyuk’s hair and untangles the knots there, focused. “I mean, he told me that I knew him. That we know each other. I don’t know who he is exactly, but after I find him, I’ll ask him to do this one thing for me unless he wants his identity exposed to the entire world.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s brows scrunch together, amused. “Blackmail is illegal, Kim Dokja.”

“Except for you, me, and Spiderman, no one would know.”

“I,” says Yoo Joonghyuk, “could report you for blackmail. For harassment. On behalf of Spiderman.”

Kim Dokja gasps dramatically, pulling back. “I did it for you.”

“Hm.” Yoo Joonghyuk’s head lolls near his collarbone. He presses his nose against Kim Dokja’s neck. Doesn’t know how it makes Kim Dokja’s skin tingle. “Still not a very nice thing to do,” he says.

“Since when did you care about being nice?” Kim Dokja flicks his forehead lightly. “Do you like Spiderman? Is that it?”

“You don’t?”

A flinch; Kim Dokja’s face reddens. “He’s…” He glances away, and leans his head against Yoo Joonghyuk’s, “okay.” There’s a pause. And then, “He has a really nice chest.”

Yoo Joonghyuk chokes, jolting. “He what?”

“Ouch,” Kim Dokja rubs the newly formed bump on his forehead. Jesus fuck, is Yoo Joonghyuk’s skull made up of steel? Spitefully, he returns the strange look his housemate is giving him. “What, was I not supposed to say that?”

“Why would you—who would ever just—” Yoo Joonghyuk screws his eyes shut and pinches his nose. Cue: an exhausted, grueling sigh. “Forget it. I’d be wasting my time trying to understand you.”

“Now that’s not very nice,” Kim Dokja retorts. “How hypocritical. You admonish me for not being nice to Spiderman but it’ll kill you to not be your emo, broody self for just a second.”

“I am not emo or broody.”

“You came out of the womb emo and broody,” Kim Dokja retorts, indisputably. “Can’t you say something nice about me every once in a while? Not counting to other people, by the way. Do you realize how many people would kill to have Kim Dokja as their roommate?”

Yoo Joonghyuk rolls his eyes. “Exactly zero.”

“Hundreds!” Kim Dokja stresses, glaring. “Look: I’m comforting you right now, helping you feel better and get rid of a headache. Meanwhile, you’re berating me while I do all this.”

“That’s because,” Yoo Joonghyuk scoffs, rising from the couch and making his way to the conspiracy board, “instead of doing anything productive, you have been out here,” his lips press together when his gaze roves over Spiderman’s picture, “geeking. Nothing else.”

“I get a new hobby, and you villainize me?” Kim Dokja springs to his feet and joins Yoo Joonghyuk. “Right, I forgot hobbies were beneath you. But even if they weren’t, I doubt you’d ever understand… this, anyway—I’m just very special.”

“In the worst way imaginable, I assume.” Yoo Joonghyuk squints at the scrawl beside his picture: MY AGE. ~28 YEARS OLD? And just below: NICE VOICE. And even lower: REALLY NICE PECS.

Good lord. Yoo Joonghyuk fears for the future of humanity.

“This,” he snags the picture; the pin that was holding it in place pops off, barrelling towards the ground. Kim Dokja’s expression morphs theatrically. “Is this all you’ve gathered about Spiderman?”

“It’s honest work, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mess it up.” Kim Dokja squats, grabs the pin, and stands back up. He glares at Yoo Joonghyuk, snatching the picture back. “I’d like to see you come up with a lot more within hours of just meeting him.”

Yoo Joonghyuk rolls his eyes as Kim Dokja fixes his board.

“You weren’t interested in Spiderman before.”

“Before, I didn’t think I’d ever meet him. Today was an eye-opener, okay? I wasn’t interested in him before, but I am now.”

Yoo Joonghyuk looks at Kim Dokja’s red face and feels something ugly fester in his chest. Today’s earlier peril resurfaces in his mind. A brief flicker of still-fresh memories: the crisp air, unfocused pupils, trembling shoulders. Guilt, unforgettable and resurging.

Frowning, he reaches over and cups Kim Dokja’s swollen cheek. The fading mark of a palm. “When he did this to you?”

“He saved my life, Yoo Joonghyuk.” Kim Dokja swats his hand away, sighing as if he’s dealing with an unreasonably childish, jealous boyfriend. “He’s not a bad guy. Injuries like this can heal overnight.”

Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t say anything.

“Oh, come on.” At his silence, Kim Dokja whirls back around with a groan. Yoo Joonghyuk hasn’t stopped looking as if Spiderman just offended his entire bloodline. “Fine. I get what you’re trying to say, and you aren’t wrong. I could’ve died. I could’ve lost an eye, or an arm, or a leg—any limb, really—but I didn’t. At the end of the day, I got out alive and mostly unharmed. And that’s something to be grateful about.”

“He could’ve kept you safer,” Yoo Joonghyuk insists. Thinks, I should’ve kept you safer. Thinks, I should’ve known. He brushes a thumb along the edges of Kim Dokja’s bruise. Then, without realizing how much closer they are now, Kim Dokja staring at him in silence, leaning into him, Yoo Joonghyuk asks, quiet, “Why do you want to unmask him so badly, Kim Dokja?”

If this was any other person trying to unmask him, it’d be clear for what: revenge, compensation, blackmail. An ulterior motive. Malicious intent.

But this was Dokja. Kim Dokja, who is as infuriating as he is perceptible. Kim Dokja, who always makes sure to lower his voice whenever Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyebrows scrunch up just barely, this specific way that indicates the start of a spidey-induced headache. Kim Dokja, who geeks out about webnovels and stories he likes and now, Spiderman.

And because this was Kim Dokja, because this is Kim Dokja trying to unmask him, Yoo Joonghyuk wants so badly to just—say it.

To tell him. To reveal. But after today’s events, what should he say? How should he phrase things? ‘Kim Dokja. I‘m Spiderman. I’m the guy that slapped you so hard your cheek bruised. The guy that, the entire time you were struggling to breathe, only cared about his secret identity’? Or, ‘Kim Dokja, I’m Spiderman. I’m also Yoo Joonghyuk, so I should’ve known about your fear of heights. So, I should’ve kept you safer—’

“You’ll get wrinkles if you keep glaring like this.” Kim Dokja taps the crease between Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyebrows, effectively snapping him back to reality. “I told you my reason already, and if you think it wasn’t the real reason, then I don’t know what to tell you. I’m nosy by nature. Or, to put it nicely: I’m curious.”

Their fingers slot together easily, and then fall between them, hanging.

…How awful, Yoo Joonghyuk can’t help but think: Kim Dokja’s hands are colder than Yoo Joonghyuk’s, yet manages to warm him all the same.

“You know what?”

At his voice, Yoo Joonghyuk turns, tilts his head up and returns Kim Dokja’s stare. At their edges, his eyes have softened. It renders Yoo Joonghyuk speechless. Wordless. And then Kim Dokja grabs him by his wrist and starts pulling him towards a familiar room, and Yoo Joonghyuk is only so human—his heart threatens to jump out of his chest.

“You were right. Kind of. I’m still feeling hurt, still feeling a bit under the weather. Spiderman’s slap hurt like a bitch—” Yoo Joonghyuk’s frown grows deeper. Kim Dokja doesn’t realize, his back turned towards him. “—but it’s not that bad; I’d even go to say that he was holding back as much strength as possible.”

He’s right. He isn’t at all wrong. But it doesn’t change the fact that the bruise is still there, doesn’t change any of the facts of today’s earlier events.

“You said—” Yoo Joonghyuk swallows. “You said you still feel hurt.”

“Emotionally,” Kim Dokja laughs softly.

Just as soft, the door closes behind them. Then, Kim Dokja starts scouring through each drawer in Yoo Joonghyuk’s bedroom. For what exactly, Yoo Joonghyuk is unsure.

“I had a shitty day, Yoo Joonghyuk,” he murmurs, and then inhales. “Now, are you going to stay still and do nothing or help me find that damned laptop of yours?”

“My laptop,” Yoo Joonghyuk parrots lamely, openly confused yet still phrasing his questions like statements—because that’s just how he is. “For…”

Kim Dokja pauses in his search, rises to his full height, and flashes him a small grin.

“Movie night,” Kim Dokja supplies, and Yoo Joonghyuk dreads. Kim Dokja notices this, holds up a palm before he can retort. “I know you hate stuff like this, but hold that complaint on your tongue and humor me just this once.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth flattens.

Kim Dokja winces. “...It’s so I can feel better?” he tries. “To end my day on a good note?”

A lousy reason. Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression crumples, dissatisfied, as his arms cross over his chest. Kim Dokja shoots him his go-to trembly, awkward smile. And had this been some kind of serious, professional setting where everything he did was to be graded as if he was giving out some sort of presentation, he’d get an instant fail. But it is not, so Yoo Joonghyuk reluctantly gives it some thought, silent.

(...It’s a losing battle. The moment Kim Dokja’s fingers circled his wrist and pulled him towards this room, Yoo Joonghyuk was fated to be a forever loser.)

“Anything,” he grumbles, petulant, “but Barbie.”

Instantly, Kim Dokja lights up.

“Oh, come on!” he says, bright and loud. The sound of windchimes tumbles out of his mouth. “Don’t be like that. What about just—just one Barbie movie—”

A resolute no falls from Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips.

+

Yoo Joonghyuk is a weak man. They end up having a Barbie movie marathon, anyways.

It’s Kim Dokja’s favorite thing to do—not binge-watching Barbie movies but rather, forcing Yoo Joonghyuk to do things he (claims) his hate. It’s out of sheer spite, Yoo Joonghyuk fears, and laments, and will forever grouch about.

But Kim Dokja is having fun. There would be a growing smile on his face whenever a horrific CGI of a made-up monster starts doing a bit. Dramatic gasps whenever there’s a plot twist. Scoffing and critical comments every now and then whenever there’s something questionable.

“They should’ve designed the dogs a little cuter. Look at them,” Kim Dokja had said in the middle. On the screen, two white-furred dogs stood up on their hind legs like people, and started dancing.

It’s fucking ridiculous. Kim Dokja let out something close to a laugh.

“They’re horrific,” he said.

In response, Yoo Joonghyuk made a disgruntled noise of agreement. Some time later, Kim Dokja scoffed and told him disapprovingly, too, about how the humor falls flat at certain points of the movies. Nonsensical, non-comitant, Yoo Joonghyuk hummed, agreeing. He knows how to tune Kim Dokja out. He knows very well how to.

He does not.

For all his earlier complaints and reluctance, Yoo Joonghyuk voices nothing of the sort throughout the entire marathon.

The agreements are sincere, despite sounding the exact opposite. The hums are sincere. The grunts, the grumbles. Yoo Joonghyuk squints, focuses intently on the movies, and on whatever Kim Dokja has to say about them. He could listen to him for ages. He would. Kim Dokja does not know this, and does not need to.

When it’s long past midnight, they’ve left the laptop shut, discarded to the side. Wrapped over and around them is Yoo Joonghyuk’s warmest blanket. Kim Dokja is talking. Yoo Joonghyuk is watching, listening to him talk. The moon is right outside. The curtains have yet to be closed, but it’s fine. Gently, words tumble out of brushstroke lips.

A truth: vulnerability is a rare and sudden thing, the most intimate gift you could ever offer someone. It is an invitation to let someone in, to say, I think it’s okay to tear my walls down for you, and rarely, so, so rarely, is it laid bare. And yet, here it is. Laid out by clumsy painter hands and painter lips, the image builds, the image forms: a story of a boy, 15 years old and his monochrome life. This boy’s childhood, this boy’s mother, this boy’s fear of heights.

The painter’s hands waver. So does his voice. Waves crash over, into, against the shore; painter hands, dipped in freezing waters. Yoo Joonghyuk decides to join him, finds out the painter is no painter after all, but his very own thing: something that had fallen from the night sky.

He lifts no-longer-painter hands out the water, rubs them together with his. It’s warm, the hands say, seconds later. Thank you, the knuckles add. And then the grooves of his palms ask, Are you reading me?

Yoo Joonghyuk squeezes Kim Dokja’s hand. Yes. Any time.

Still, Kim Dokja trembles, but this is fine, too. The trembling, the shaking, is bound to stop, bound to slow. Nothing instant, but something eventual. So until then, Yoo Joonghyuk waits and waits and waits, giving his hand occasional squeezes, and listens.

At the end of the night, Kim Dokja looks at him. At the end of the night, Kim Dokja huffs out something soft and bordering on a laugh, and squeezes back.

“Your hand’s rough,” he says, so quiet Yoo Joonghyuk wouldn’t have heard him if he was a regular person. He sniffles. Wipes away his own tears with his free hand, and snuggles a little closer. “It’s nice. I like the texture. Is that weird? Sorry. It’s just—it’s just very grounding to me, somehow.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands are full of scars. He has never liked them, and so feels his mouth dry. “You like my hands,” he echoes with a twinge of wonder.

Kim Dokja stares at him and frowns. “Is it really that weird to say—”

“No—no,” Yoo Joonghyuk breathes. The night catches in his throat; starlight fills his hands, ceaselessly. “It’s not weird. It’s just—” Their fingers twist a little closer, like bodies. “The average person wouldn’t think that way,” he says.

“Well, then.” Kim Dokja’s head knocks against Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder. Rests there, after. “I guess that means I’m a little special now. The good kind.”

“A little,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeats exasperatedly. A tinge of fondness.

“A tiny bit,” Kim Dokja says, teasing. And then, “But I think you’re wrong, Joonghyuk. A lot of people like rough hands—a lot of people like hands like yours. Even if the average person wouldn’t like them, a good chunk of people still would.”

“I haven’t met a lot of people who’ve told me that.”

“Really.” Kim Dokja laughs, rolls his eyes. “I find it hard to believe that everyone you’ve met hates your hands. I mean, to the point of you having to draw such a drastic conclusion?”

Yoo Joonghyuk scoffs. “Maybe—” he cranes his neck, and the night is frighteningly still.

(A little closer, a little bolder, and he would have pressed a kiss to the top of Kim Dokja’s head.)

“Maybe I just don’t have the habit of letting anyone hold my hand,” he grumbles. And then, “Do you?”

Kim Dokja makes a sound. “Do I have absolutely no shame in your eyes?”

“You just realized?”

“You—” Kim Dokja would’ve placed a hand over his heart, dramatic, if his wasn’t so preoccupied right now. “You wound me, Yoo Joonghyuk,” he says, “It’s the second time you’ve betrayed me today. Have some sympathy, why don’t you?”

“The first time, I only suggested to,” Yoo Joonghyuk scoffs. “As an upstanding, law-abiding citizen who sympathizes with Spiderman.”

“Threatened, you mean. And I know you’re uptight. You don’t have to say it twice.”

“Don’t twist my words, Kim Dokja.”

“I won’t when you start being nice,” he says, and then laughs. After a moment, his eyes lower. “Though, you’re not so bad as you are right now.”

He plays with their fingers, tangled loosely together, and then lifts them up high, against the moon.

There’s a palm-shaped shadow cast over his face, and yet Kim Dokja’s eyes remain star-filled, twinkling. His lips curling up minutely, beautifully, as he watches the breeze slip past the gaps of their fingers. As Yoo Joonghyuk watches him.

“I…” he begins again, and swallows something down. His heart, perhaps. “I really like your hands, Joonghyuk,” he whispers. “I really do.”

Gone is the usual light-hearted, teasing lilt of Kim Dokja’s voice, and so Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t really know how to respond this time around. But—maybe he doesn’t need to.

Maybe it’s fine this way. Maybe it’s alright to stay like this, fitted against the night and another warm body, his ribcage curling around a pounding rhythm that just won’t calm. And for a long moment, all he does is stare at the outlines of a star.

For too long, for far too long, he says nothing, but maybe even this is okay.

He looks away, rests his head against Kim Dokja’s, and lets out a breath. Their hands fall onto his lap. Then, in what feels like a momentary, world-defying lapse of judgement, he brings them closer, cradles them against his heartbeat.

He wonders if there’ll be a hole in his chest tomorrow when they wake, the shape of two hands grasping one another.

But tomorrow is tomorrow. And so he rakes his mind back into the present, stares at this newfound source of warmth, and sees… this for what it is: how none of them have made a move to let the other go. How it could be hours, how the two of them could be sweating buckets, and yet would not untangle their fingers.

Seconds pass. And then, minutes. Kim Dokja doesn’t say anything either, but it’s fine. Yoo Joonghyuk holds his hand a little tighter, breathes him in a little closer, and it’s enough.

Centuries could pass like this. Yoo Joonghyuk wouldn’t really mind if they did.

Chapter Text

III.

“Wait,” comes a breathy exhale. Yoo Joonghyuk frowns at the man trapped between his arms, scanning every inch of his perfectly red face with a single thought: Why. He almost scowls. Kim Dokja weakly pushes him away.

“This is—don’t you think—” He averts his eyes. A nerve almost bursts on Yoo Joonghyuk’s forehead for the tenth time in a row within the last fifteen minutes. “Don’t you think you’re going a little… I don’t know, too fast, Yoo Joonghyuk?”

Yoo Joonghyuk grits his teeth.

“I,” Yoo Joonghyuk almost snaps, “have been trying to tell you something important for weeks, Kim Dokja. You have been avoiding me.”

A deer caught in headlights, Kim Dokja tenses.

Not talking, then. Okay, fine, whatever. Yoo Joonghyuk had expected this, anyway. Kim Dokja can stay silent for as long as he’d like. Yoo Joonghyuk’s conversational skills are impeccable—he’ll lead this conversation so well Kim Dokja will be in awe and give him a standing ovation by the end of their talk. One-sided conversations are a walk in the park. No fucking problem.

For a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk thinks it over. On the agenda: calming Kim Dokja, small talk, and super-secret, superhero identity reveals. Three measly things. Easy enough. Let the show begin, then.

He inhales.

“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk begins gruffly, as eloquent as a gorilla. He pushes forward, fist against the wall. The wall trembles, threatens to break against his knuckles. And finally:

“…Why.”

Wow. Jaw-dropping conversational skills. The wall cries.

But even then, for a distant, fleeting second, Kim Dokja’s face reddens even further—impossibly—that Yoo Joonghyuk mistakes it as a trick of the light. A beat, a blink—and it’s gone. Like the goddamn wind. He stares, stares, stares. It disappears. Was it ever even there?

Shit, Yoo Joonghyuk thinks dumbly, I need to get more sleep.

Kim Dokja eventually gathers himself. “Look here, Yoo Joonghyuk.” One shaky inhale and exhale later, his eyes are still wandering. “I know it’s been a while since this all, um, started, but I’m—not ready yet.”

Yoo Joonghyuk furrows his brows. Not ready yet? What does he mean by that?

“You know what I want to tell you?”

“Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Do you suddenly have a penchant for rhetorical questions?”

Kim Dokja swivels around, gives him a sharp glare. Flush be damned, he will not take any one-sided beatings from Resident Arrogant Bastard No.1, verbally or otherwise. “I’m not an idiot—or stupid, or a fool,” he says. “At least, not as big as you like saying I am.”

Yoo Joonghyuk can’t help it—he rolls his eyes. Kim Dokja groans.

“You’re such an asshole,” he grumbles against his palms before he lets them fall and lets a second pass, gaze flicking back over to his shoes. “I can’t believe we’re doing this now, of all times. Do you realize how unbelievably hard you make it,” his voice cracks, “for me to want to accept you?”

Hilarious. Yoo Joonghyuk scoffs. “Do I need to,” he deadpans, brushing a thumb along Kim Dokja’s jaw before tilting his chin up, “when we both already know that you will either way?”

Like a bullet, Kim Dokja recoils. His eyes go wide and his face explodes into the shades of the sky right outside. Yoo Joonghyuk allows himself a second to relish in his obvious victory, and then inches just the tiniest bit closer. He can practically feel the heat of—embarrassment? radiating off of Kim Dokja’s face.

“That’s—”

“You’re a good person, Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk interjects, huffing begrudgingly, lightly. Because compliments are due, because it’s a vital part of his three-part plan that he doesn’t scare Kim Dokja away.

Kim Dokja’s always asking Yoo Joonghyuk for these kinds of things, anyway. Always complaining about him never being nice to him, never recognizing his blindingly amazing points.

“Unfortunately. So, naturally, you’re the only one worthy of—”

“No!” Kim Dokja slaps his hands over Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth.

No? Yoo Joonghyuk raises an eyebrow. Kim Dokja does not retract his hands.

“I mean—no as in,” his tongue dips out once, twice, swiping across his top lip, “not yet. This isn’t a refusal. I’m just—I’m not ready for this just yet.”

Those words again: Not ready. What’s that supposed to mean? Why would he need to prepare himself for Yoo Joonghyuk’s identity reveal? And what does he mean by a refusal? He can’t refuse the fact that Yoo Joonghyuk is Spiderman—it’s a fact.

Kim Dokja glances away, finally takes back his hands, and then coaxes Yoo Joonghyuk’s embrace to relax. Yoo Joonghyuk’s arms fall to his sides, limp, but then Kim Dokja grabs his palms in his, raises them a little, and keeps his stare stubbornly fixed on the calluses across his knuckles.

“I have some things to sort through, so if you tell me now, I don’t think I’d be able to give you a well thought out answer. I’m… still trying to figure a lot of things out. Things about myself, how I want to continue,” he pauses, eyebrows scrunching together, “everything, and…”

Kim Dokja is tomato red.

“And you’re very important to me, Joonghyuk,” he mutters, his voice a small thing. “You know how I feel about you.”

…What.

It takes him a second, but the pieces all finally click into place.

“You—” Yoo Joonghyuk begins, only to fail miserably. Flushing hotly, a garbled mess of words rumbles out from the back of his throat. Shit—he tries again: “You—”

Kim Dokja surges on the tips of his toes and kisses Yoo Joonghyuk a millimeter away from his lips.

Yoo Joonghyuk is positively, irrevocably frozen.

He’s going to stay like this, stuck and speechless, for an entire millennium. The spot of warmth on his skin doesn’t seem to go away as his face tingles. A bolt of lightning has split him straight-down the middle and left a forest fire in his ribcage. It rages up, up, up, and fuck—his face—his face is on fucking fire, what the fuck—

“I’ll say this again: I’m not refusing you.”

He stares at Kim Dokja, besotted. Snapped back to reality, to this sight of an uncharacteristically bashful yet bold man, the ghost of his mouth still lingering, lingering, lingering.

“Just…” Kim Dokja chews on his bottom lip, glances down. Stubbornly stays this way, then. And in a whisper, as if this was something secret, something tender like a promise: “Just give me some time, Joonghyuk, okay?”

Okay? Okay? It’s not okay! There’s been some sort of huge misunderstanding, and Yoo Joonghyuk needs to hurry and clarify things, but he can’t fucking speak.

His jaw has unhinged by itself. He has forgotten what words are. Grammar, speech, a little bit of how to breathe as well. The end of the world—this must be it. Yes, that must be it. The world must be ending right now.

But then Kim Dokja notices the stupefied wrinkles of his expression and laughs, loud and bright and something unbelievably, inevitably warm, and Yoo Joonghyuk can’t suppress the thought that the world is fine, that it’s right here in front of him—how could he be so blind?

“Joonghyuk,” says Kim Dokja with half a mind to reach out, rolling the syllables of his name on his tongue first. His eyes are back on him. There is a silence—too long, too short. A breath, two. And then, “I’m going to be late, you know.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s forehead creases. Words, yes? He knows them; they exist. “You don’t have classes today.”

“You remember my schedule? How sweet.”

“Kim Dokja.”

Kim Dokja laughs. His fingers raise, combing back a loose strand of Yoo Joonghyuk’s fringe. “I’m kidding. Lighten up, you bastard. I have a club meeting. Han Sooyoung will kill me if I’m late again. Hell, she threatened to kick me out if I was today. Me, the president of the club. Can you believe it?”

A deep breath. “I can,” murmurs Yoo Joonghyuk.

Kim Dokja looks amused. “Terrible friends, both of you.”

“Friends,” he echoes despairingly.

“Ah—no. I guess it’s to-be-updated in your case, isn’t it?”

“…To-be-updated.”

“Yes,” Kim Dokja’s mouth twitches up. “Yes, to-be-updated.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s brain has long short circuited.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

And that’s that.

Kim Dokja leaves within the next second. In his wake, he leaves behind one stupefied Yoo Joonghyuk, standing uselessly in the middle of their living room without a word, without a single thought.

For a few long moments, Yoo Joonghyuk feels as if he’s forgetting something.

“Ah.” He blinks and turns, the melding colors of dusk blanketing his face. “The curtains,” he murmurs to himself, moving. The sun peeks over the windowsill and the sky is a perfect red-orange as he says, “I forgot to close them.”

+

12:09 AM, the clock reads. Yoo Joonghyuk is staring at his ceiling. There are dark bags under his eyes. Post gay panic clarity.

He was supposed to reveal his superhero identity to Kim Dokja earlier today and he was so close but failed anyway because of that—that wretched secret, sinister weapon Kim Dokja had been hiding for millennia and only decided to take out right then and there.

But now that he thought about it, there’s no blaming him for losing afterwards. After all, Kim Dokja had gotten ahold of a great weakness even he hadn’t known about, and in the face of a new extreme, a never-before-considered variable, what other option did he have but to retreat if, at the very least, his sanity and rationale were still in tact? Clearly, he carried out the best possible response and—

Ah. Damn it all. Who is he kidding?

It occurs to him how miserably he’s failed in his identity reveal just before he passes out on his bed. Maybe he should start drafting a will instead, bid his goodbyes to his regular villains, and reveal his identity in a lawyer-approved letter. He closes his eyes, imagines it almost longingly.

To Kim Dokja, it would read, I leave my greatest secret:

I shoot webs for a living.

+

He will tell Kim Dokja that he’s Spiderman. He will, mark his words.

A bit of background: the past few weeks have been eye-opening. A couple of super and regular villains’ monologues passed and survived, he had come to realize how exceedingly easier everything would be if Spiderman had some sort of partner-in-crime behind the scenes.

A missed class or assignment? His partner-in-crime would be ready with an excuse and wouldn’t suspect Yoo Joonghyuk of anything, already knowing the reason behind his sudden disappearance. Crime strikes somewhere while a stranger insists on bothering him? Cue: Mr./Ms. Partner-In-Crime, swooping in to steal him away and saving him in the process.

Of course, the person perfect for this role is Kim Dokja.

He’s his roommate. He’s not bad at keeping secrets. They share a couple of classes together, and their friendship (?) is especially well-known throughout the campus. (He has Uriel to thank for this last part, though he really doesn’t want to. But moving on—)

The next few failed attempts went on similarly, and in spite of everything, Yoo Joonghyuk was still only human; he was starting to lose all hope.

But that can’t be. It simply can’t. He is both Yoo Joonghyuk and Spiderman, which is to say: He is no quitter. Which is to say: He is stubborn. Painfully, almost exasperatingly, so.

Which brings us to now.

It’s a Thursday. It’s a beautiful, sunny Thursday.

Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t have classes on Thursdays for his peace of mind. And yet here he was, on campus, wearing a grave frown, Kim Dokja caged between his arms.

He has him pinned against the wall. Once again, this roommate of his is blushing furiously. Not at all surprising. They’ve been doing this biweekly, after all; he’d seen this reaction coming from miles away.

This time around, however, Kim Dokja is not looking away.

Yoo Joonghyuk glares at him murderously. “Kim Dokja,” he says.

“Yoo Joonghyuk,” Kim Dokja says back. His voice cracks. They both wince. Redder now, Kim Dokja clears his throat. “You, uh, wanted something from me?”

(Behind them, a bush… rustles in anticipation?)

“I need to tell you something. And I have been,” he grits, “trying to for the past few weeks. You kept avoiding me.”

“For good reason!” Kim Dokja defends himself, “I wasn’t ready—I needed time to prepare myself!”

The implications and the misunderstandings resurface. They have Yoo Joonghyuk reeling, taken aback, faltering. “I was—” Yoo Joonghyuk’s face is on fire. “You have it all wr—”

“Yes, I’ll be your boyfriend!”

The world stops.

“...What.”

“I like you too!” Kim Dokja yells, his eyes squeezed shut. A touch of pink dusts his cheeks. “I-I’ll gladly be your boyfriend!”

“Gladly,” Yoo Joonghyuk echoes, petrified. “Gladly?”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Kim Dokja looks away shyly. No, embarrassed-ly? Bashfully?

“It took me a while to sort out my feelings,” Kim Dokja says, fiddling with his fingers, “and a lot more to decide to accept, but I’m sure of it now, Yoo Joonghyuk: I like you, too.”

Great. Now both their faces are forever in flames.

“I’m… not the best person to have as a significant other, just so you know, but I think I’d like to give… us a go. If you’re okay with it.”

“If I’m okay with it,” says Yoo Joonghyuk, incredulous. His brows come together in a furrow, furious, angry, disbelieving. “I’m—”

Kim Dokja turns back to him, meeting his gaze, and Yoo Joonghyuk’s breath catches in his throat.

Fuuuuuck.

Everything is a lie. Everything is a farce, a mask, an awful attempt at covering the flush of a face and a heart going haywire. Yoo Joonghyuk’s brows have not at all furrowed in fury, anger, or disbelief. Not at all.

Overhead, the sun is blazing. Today is an especially hot day. This must be why, Yoo Joonghyuk tries convincing himself, tries rationalizing. This must be why he so easily melts here, like this, his chest constricting as the drumming in his ears gets louder. As his expression scrunches into this flustered, awkward thing of a man; a puddle, more; fully-functioning, less.

On either side of Kim Dokja, Yoo Joonghyuk’s arms go slack. They loosen as he crumbles and melts, dropping his head to the slope of Kim Dokja’s shoulder, and inhales. Then he exhales, his arms falling, hands cupping Kim Dokja’s waist as he lets one, two second pass. If he held him in place like this, then maybe Kim Dokja wouldn’t ever be able to escape and he’d finally be able to smoothly reveal his superhero identity.

“…I’m okay with it,” Yoo Joonghyuk eventually says in spite of everything. His voice comes out hoarse, and maybe rationale and sanity are forever no-gos when it comes to dealing with Kim Dokja.“Of course I’m okay with it, you absolute fool.”

Against him, Kim Dokja’s entire body warms even further. Inevitably, Yoo Joonghyuk feels this, feels him. Inevitably, it drives Yoo Joonghyuk a bit more insane, a bit more over the edge.

Kim Dokja clears his throat. “I was just making sure,” he hurriedly says, “You know, in case you changed your mind or—or someone new came in and—”

“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk shuts him up, raising his head from the crook of his shoulder to really, finally look at him in this moment.

Ba-dump, his heart says.

Fuck you, Yoo Joonghyuk internally snaps at it.

A couple of seconds pass. Truly, no one has ever told him how to defend himself against things like this. Screwing his eyes painfully shut, he finds that he has to hold back a groan.

Fuuuuuuuck, is all he can think.

“Call me by my first name,” he ends up telling Kim Dokja. His tone is resigned. “No honorifics.”

Like a goddamn lightbulb, Kim Dokja brightens. This close, Yoo Joonghyuk fears he’ll actually get blinded but he doesn’t look away even then.

“Then, I’ll be in your care.” There’s a bashful pause. And then, a cheeky smile as Kim Dokja adds, “Joonghyuk-ah.”

“...And I,” Yoo Joonghyuk grumbles, glancing away as the heat never quite leaves his face, “in yours.”

Whatever, he ends up thinking. There will be other chances, other opportunities, for him to reveal his superhero identity to Kim Dokja. Whatever, whatever, whatever.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s legs give out beneath him; he sinks, ends up squatting, burying his face in his arms. Shit, he thinks mortifyingly, I can’t—I can’t make this damn blush—go away—

He lets out a muffled groan; whatever, whatever, whatever, fuck!

Foolishness is contagious. Yes, that must be it! It’s 100% Kim Dokja’s fault that he’s turned out this way! All his fault.

Bending his knees, Kim Dokja calls out to Yoo Joonghyuk worriedly before squatting beside him. Yoo Joonghyuk dares to peek an eye at him. And then he sees the way he tilts his head, watching him, the glint in his eyes simultaneously amused and concerned, and lets out a deep breath.

…Oh. He’s already too far gone, isn’t he?

Hook, line, and sinker—Kim Dokja had him wrapped around his finger all this time. How long has it been? How hasn’t he ever noticed?

Yoo Joonghyuk reaches an arm towards Kim Dokja.

In time, there will be a hand, or the press of two mouths against each other. The unintentionally synchronized, rapid beating of two hearts or wildfires bursting across cheeks. Gazes, then, perhaps too, that speak more than you could ever say.

These things take time. So for now, all they do is look, and stare, and go redder and redder and redder as their fingers brush and warm against each other before they intertwine, soft and rough yet nothing bad.

The afternoon’s heat seeps through their skin.

“...Kim Dokja.” The words leave Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth before he can stop them, but it’s fine—he figures he wouldn’t want to, anyway.

Kim Dokja responds with a hum, smiling small and warm and something secret just for him, and for what feels like the fiftieth time in the span of five minutes, Yoo Joonghyuk’s breath hitches.

“You...” His ears heat up.

“Me,” replies Kim Dokja, cheekily.

Yoo Joonghyuk holds back a smile—tries to, at the very least.

(He fails—it doesn’t quite work, and maybe all his failed attempts at bottling up these flowery feelings for this one man have overflowed, because his throat itches, expands, and before he knows it, his hand is sweaty, a gust of wind almost topples his heart over, and yet Kim Dokja is here, Kim Dokja is still always, always here and—and—

And Yoo Joonghyuk can’t hold it any longer.)

“Kim Dokja,” he says again, and maybe this, too, is a kind of vulnerability. He lets out a breath. “You drive me insane.”

Cue: the widening of eyes, the aborted, stuttered noises spilling out of a mouth. And next to them: a brutish man, well-known for being cold and expressionless, and the quirk of his lips, staring at a mess he would hold, no doubt, in due time. (And this is a promise—this is no if or maybe or perhaps. It is a will and a phrase made up of three letters not yet said.)

Too caught up in their own world, the newly formed couple doesn’t notice the urgent situation just a few feet behind them.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Jung Heewon’s voice booms behind a bush. She snaps her head to the woman lying in her arms. “Uriel! Stay with me, Uriel!”

“...Give them—” Uriel coughs weakly and pushes a wad of cash into Jung Heewon’s palms, “—my congratulations…”

“Uriel? Stay with me! Can you hear me? No—Uriel, no…!”

Chapter Text

“I might be living with a serial killer.”

The phone speaker crumbles around a sharp, exasperated inhale.

[Okay.]

There’s a brief silence. Han Sooyoung’s elbows knock loudly against a hundred different hard surfaces as she, presumably, rises from her bed.

[And this was so important that you had to let me know immediately at two-thirty in the fucking morning?]

Kim Dokja lets out an offended, strained noise. “You’re not listening to me.”

[I’m running on fifteen minutes of sleep and five shots of vodka,] she hisses. [Not coffee. Vodka. Of course I’m not listening to you. I swear, I’m calling up your mother if you called me just for this.]

“My—” A shiver runs down Kim Dokja’s spine. “You wouldn’t do that.”

[Right, because I always have your best interests at heart.]

“Are you sassing me right now?”

[Payback for all those times you annoyed me to hell and back—both on purpose and on accident.]

“I,” Kim Dokja’s face twists, the look of ultimate betrayal, “have never done so much as reach out to intentionally bother you.”

[Wow.] He hears Han Sooyoung snort. [Blatantly lying now, are we? I remember at least twelve separate occasions in freshman year and you’re telling me none of those were intentional?]

“Hmm.” Kim Dokja tries to recall it all because—twelve? He remembers maybe two or three times she’s fumed and threatened his life when he ate her last pint of yogurt she had been saving for a particularly stressful night during one of their organization trips. But twelve? Surely she’s exaggerating. Surely. A nervous laugh rolls off his tongue, Kim Dokja desperately swatting away the image of a flesh-hungry, barbaric Han Sooyoung chasing after him at their next scheduled club meeting. “You’re being dramatic. I don’t mess with you that often.”

A groan flits in and out in between bouts of static. Damn signal. [I should’ve kept a catalog or something. If y—ou really need—d a refresh—r—]

“Sooyoung,” Kim Dokja squints as if it’d make the signal any better, “You’re breaking up. Hold on.”

[Br—ki—ng up?! Me—nd Sang—h are just f—ine, you ra—t b—st’rd—!]

“The signal,” he interjects, incredulous. He shifts around on the couch before standing back up and stepping towards the wall to his left. He leans a shoulder against it. Knocks a bone against one or two low shelves. “The fucking signal is breaking up, not you and—oh, whatever.” He chances a quick glance at the bars on his phone: three. Good enough. Sighing, he slips his phone back between a shoulder blade and his cheek. “What were you saying before? I didn’t catch it, whatever you said after something about a catalog—”

[Two years ago,] Han Sooyoung seethes, cutting him off. Instantly Kim Dokja pales; the dread’s already started crawling up his gut. [The beach house. Remember that? Or do you need more examples? Because I’ve—I’ve got a whole arsenal for you, Dokja. First semester of freshman year, that one time we got put in the same group. Accounting-9158. Commerce-1001. Lady Gaga and the Sociology of Fame. The fucking powerpoint—]

“Stop, stop—please.” A plethora of memories start resurfacing. Faces of old professors and friends and oh. Oh, god, just when he had finally managed to forget about it all— “You’ve made your point. I’m sorry. Just hear me out. Just this once. I’ll give you five thousand won, so—”

[Ten,] Han Sooyoung interjects.

“…Seven point five.”

[Fifteen.]

“Han Sooyoung,” Kim Dokja exhales, exasperated.

[Twen—]

“Alright, alright! Ten thousand won!” he shrieks as quietly as he can into his phone, and cries a little inside when Han Sooyoung’s triumphant grin transcends the call. “Ten thousand won and no more. Please. Do you know how expensive transit’s getting these days?”

In front of him, imaginary-Han Sooyoung waves him off. Kim Dokja has never wanted to punch someone so bad.

[Take it up with, uh, Karl Marx, or something,] Real-Han Sooyoung yawns. [Not my problem, don’t really care. And didn’t you burn through your money this month to buy that weird Spiderman figurine a week ago?]

“I—” Suddenly Kim Dokja’s mouth feels inexplicably dry. His eyes flit to the still-there corkboard of Possible Spiderman Identities before him. Then to the surrounding shelves, complete with at least five different limited edition merchandise perched on top of them each.

“Shut up,” he settles on saying, face red with embarrassment. “And it’s cool. Not weird,” he adds. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Han Sooyoung cackles quietly. It comes out not unlike the sound of a dying whale, Kim Dokja notes pettily.

[Three minutes, Dokja.]

Kim Dokja blinks.

Right. Back to the matter at hand. They’d gotten too side-tracked.

His gaze darts to the shoe rack. Yoo Joonghyuk’s mud-covered boots stare back at him menacingly. The world’s longest second commences right here, a stare-down between Kim Dokja and the single most terrifying inanimate object to ever exist.

A dark red sheen catches in his eye. A shiver runs down Kim Dokja’s spine. He breathes in deeply and tears his gaze away.

“Yoo Joonghyuk just got home.”

[Breaking news.]

“Don’t snark me—hear me out first. Remember all those times where I told you, albeit jokingly, that Yoo Joonghyuk could have some super secret, super dangerous crime-related job I didn’t know about?”

[…Where are you going with this?]

“Um.” Kim Dokja’s gaze flits to the door of the apartment bathroom, then back. The sound of the running water fills his ears, echoes. “So it’s that again, but—not a joke.”

Thump. That’s the sound of Han Sooyoung planting her palm flat against her face—which is very rude, by the way. Obviously. Shame on her.

[So,] she begins, her muffled voice dripping with exhaustion, [You’re delusional. Got it. Knew it since a long, long time ago—did you forget to take your meds?]

Kim Dokja sputters. “Sooyoung!”

[Right—serious! Being serious. I’m—I’m taking you real fucking seriously while ridiculously tired and hungover right now, Dokja.]

Kim Dokja squints at a boringly empty wall, imagining Han Sooyoung’s spiteful face. Imaginary-Han Sooyoung gives him the middle finger, mouths a pretentious, fuck you, and stares at him like he’s the worst thing to ever grace the planet. Internally, Kim Dokja gives Imaginary-Han Sooyoung his own middle finger.

“Okay,” he replies after a moment, appeased. “Okay, so. I called you in hopes of getting advice on how to approach this whole, um,” his eyes wander back to the bathroom door, then away, “...my-boyfriend-slash-roommate-slash-arch-nemesis-might-be-a-part-of-the-mafia situation.”

Han Sooyoung blinks and Kim Dokja winces—he’s never thought disappointment and frustration could be so loud. [Are you still fucking with me?]

“No, I—Sooyoung—”

[Is this a prank? Is there a hidden camera? Do I need to say, like, a phrase for you to win a dumb challenge or something?]

“I’m serious!” Kim Dokja snaps, half-yelling half-whispering into the call because Yoo Joonghyuk has inhumane ears and is only one thin wall and a couple of feet away from him. “There’s—something he isn’t telling me. Something he’s been wanting to tell me for awhile now, I think, but hasn’t gotten an opportunity to.”

[Maybe,] Han Sooyoung drags out the last syllable, considering something for a moment. She smacks her lips, announces, resolutely: [Maybe Yoo Joonghyuk is a vampire.]

Kim Dokja’s face pulls in repulsion. “You are physically incapable of offering me any help,” he deadpans. “At any given moment. I want a second opinion.”

Han Sooyoung audibly stops in whatever train of thought she’s been gleefully entertaining for the past few minutes. [You want a second opinion,] she says.

“Yes.”

[…From the girlfriend?]

“Yes.”

[Who is currently sleeping like a baby beside me?]

“Yes.”

[From,] she pauses, disbelieving and on the verge of fuming, probably, [Sangah?]

“I’ll apologize to Sangah-ssi tomorrow morning for disturbing her sleep and you two’s cuddle time,” Kim Dokja winces, belatedly realizing how shit an effort this is to pacify The Devil’s disbelief and simmering fury; Yoo Sangah’s been getting as much sleep as he does on a good day, which is to say, almost none at all. Kim Dokja knows this—they take the same classes, share most of their professors and whatnot, and finals are just around the corner. If he was Han Sooyoung, he’d be cussing himself out too. How dare he try to ruin The Wife’s rare yet much needed beauty sleep?

It’s too late to take anything back, though. For all his recurring fanfare and general fraud behavior, Kim Dokja is scarily persistent in seeing the things he started through even if it might cost him his life, The Devil likely already plotting his death on the other line.

So: “Listen, I know it sounds stupid, but just this once—”

A small, quick click against Kim Dokja’s ear echoes deafeningly. Kim Dokja stiffens for a few long moments before moving his phone away from his ear, hand shaking wildly.

Call Ended, the text on his screen reads.

Kim Dokja stumbles back onto the couch, thumbs moving at lightning speed to open Han Sooyoung’s contact menu.

For a minute he deliberates over blocking her or doing something even more heinous—like signing her up for a month of spam calls and texts from exactly fifty fake McDonald’s numbers, or something. But Spiderman saved a good citizen. A great one, actually. A goddamn exemplar of a citizen, and said citizen will be damned if Han Sooyoung will tarnish his well-fought-for title, bestowed upon him by none other than the arachnid hero himself.

It’s Han Sooyoung’s lucky day; he closes her contact. Curses her under his breath anyway. Spiderman would be proud, he thinks hopefully.

And then the bathroom door opens.

Kim Dokja freezes.

Images of the worn down soles of Yoo Joonghyuk’s depressing boots flash across his mind, the grimey, might-be-blood liquid stuck between its ridges, creeping down the edges of their shoe rack. It had all slipped his mind—how did it all slip his mind? Damn Han Sooyoung. Damn writers and shitty best friends who only know how to interrupt him every five seconds. He’s going to die. Yoo Joonghyuk has caught him red-handed. He’ll take a peek at Kim Dokja’s phone, see the text messages he’s exchanged with Han Sooyoung, and decide the best silencing method to shut Kim Dokja up. No loose ends, no mercy.

Kim Dokja gets it, he supposes. He’d gotten so close to uncovering some kind of big mob deal equivalent to a city-wide drug bust, after all, so silencing himself is the only good way to go about this, really. It’s understandable, and Kim Dokja would be plenty grateful already if he could send just one last message to all his loved ones, draft up a small will, etcetera, etcetera. He gets it.

…Then again, would Yoo Joonghyuk spare his life if he volunteered to join his little gang as, like, a punching bag or something—

“Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk says and oh. Oh, god.

Kim Dokja turns to the side. Enter: Yoo Joonghyuk, fringe down flat, water trickling slowly down his cheekbones and jaw, his lips set in a deep, handsome frown. Kim Dokja gulps.

Possible crime lord, his brain tries helpfully reminding him, only for the thought to be pushed to the deepest, darkest corner of his mind. Possible assassin. Possible—hell, as ridiculous as it sounds, it might even be the most plausible answer—vampire. But no matter.

Kim Dokja’s pulse does this—this thing, jumping around in his chest, banging against his ribcage, effectively shushing all the whispered reminders of the dangers and secrets this man could possibly have.

Secret jobs? Danger? Crime lords? Assassins? The trials and tribulations of a facecon are terribly horrific things; when Yoo Joonghyuk steps forward, his bangs flicking wetly against his forehead, droplets rolling slowly down the sharp bridge of his nose; when Yoo Joonghyuk comes to him and leans down, his mouth pressing against his for a too-fleeting second—Kim Dokja’s brain promptly short-circuits, then decides nothing else will ever matter.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s frown doesn’t go away, it never quite does, but the tension around his jaw softens just the tiniest bit. His hand traces up the smile lines of Kim Dokja’s face, tilts his chin up.

And then he kisses him again.

Several times. Good lord. Kim Dokja is a second away from combusting right here and now.

His cheeks, his eyelids, his forehead, his nose—a flustered noise slips out of Kim Dokja’s mouth when Yoo Joonghyuk’s comes pressing against it once more, twice more, thrice more, and—there doesn’t seem to be any end to this! It’s never-ending, it’s ridiculous; Yoo Joonghyuk’s doing all this just because he can, which is nothing short of ridiculous—right? Right? Who kisses someone this many times just because?

“Joonghyuk-ah,” Kim Dokja has to push him away to get him to stop, his face warming. This can’t be healthy. “Stop it. Most people would have their fill by now.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyebrows crease together, displeased. “Don’t be foolish, Kim Dokja.”

“That’s what I should be saying to you,” Kim Dokja gawks. When Yoo Joonghyuk mistakenly tries leaning forward once more, Kim Dokja pushes him off by the torso. “I’ll be out of breath if you keep on kissing me. As surprisingly gentle as you are, it’s still too much.”

Because Yoo Joonghyuk is Yoo Joonghyuk, he makes a face that conveys enough. Specifically, how he doesn’t get this logic. Doesn’t understand why and how that could ever be the case, because Kim Dokja is red and warm and smiling a little like always, so he’s got to be doing something right here—and he’d very well be damned if that something wasn’t about these kisses. Two plus two, five.

“You’re being a fool again,” Yoo Joonghyuk concludes, and Kim Dokja kind of wants to cry.

Lacking an irritably enormous amount of consideration, this one. Kim Dokja is on the cusp of exploding and imploding from fondness and frustration all at the same time. He grips Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulders, forces him down to the empty spot beside him on their couch. His knee slips into the gap between their couch pillows.

“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk says in disbelief.

“No,” Kim Dokja shakes his head resolutely, “Don’t ‘Kim Dokja’ me. Listen. You might not know this—and your complete lack of experience with relationships will always stump me—but kissing someone twice or thrice is usually all you need as a greeting. All a regular person needs, anyway. Kissing too much or too long comes with a lot of consequences, alright? I could die,” his tone turns grave, “From kisses. And you wouldn’t want that, right?”

He glances up at Yoo Joonghyuk, gaze prodding at him for an answer, but Yoo Joonghyuk has a dazed look on his face, his eyes following the curve of Kim Dokja’s lips stubbornly.

“Uhuh,” he answers mindlessly.

A heavy heat beats down on Kim Dokja’s cheeks, incessant. “Yoo Joonghyuk,” he says, like he’s out of breath. Then he lets go of Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulders and moves his hands to his jaw. Cups each cheek, and forces him to look up. “Listen.”

“...” says Yoo Joonghyuk, the displeasure on his face growing with every second. Kim Dokja grimaces.

“You kiss like a dog,” trips out of his mouth. He grimaces again.

“I kiss like a what.”

Shit. He’s growling now. Like an actual fucking dog. What the actual hell?

“Do you have a death wish, Kim Dokja?”

Apparently, boyfriend privileges don’t include being exempted from Yoo Joonghyuk’s rage. Great. Well.

On the upside, at least he’s finally gotten Yoo Joonghyuk’s full attention.

“I enjoy breathing a fair amount.” With all the courage he can muster, he wills himself to not shake. He inhales deeply through his nostrils, licks his suddenly, terribly dry lips once, and then twice. “And I enjoy my lips—my whole face, actually, preferably—to not feel like soggy socks 24/7. You don’t exercise enough self-control when it comes to these things. And what if I overheat because of this—because of you, you know? Ever thought about that? I could suffocate. Faint. I could die. Get twenty heart-attacks in a row within the span of twenty minutes back to back—”

Okay, he’ll admit it here: he’s being a bit dramatic. Maybe.

“You have absolutely no idea how to gauge another person’s durability. How much I can take before I explode, as opposed to you. I can only handle so much, so have some consideration every once in a while! Hold back when it comes to kisses and physical touch, or so help me god—”

He’s cut off with a groan from Yoo Joonghyuk and a yelp from himself, the other dropping his head to his shoulder.

“Shut up,” Yoo Joonghyuk grunts, low and barely coherent. Just as Kim Dokja is about to barrel head-first into another bout of scolding, he grumbles, “Tired. Missed you. Head doesn’t hurt when you’re around. So—” He shifts closer, his ear planted directly against his collarbone before sliding closer as if to hear his heartbeat. His arms slide down, snake around his waist, and that.

That’s just downright cheating.

“So be quiet, Dokja.”

How the fuck are you supposed to react to something like that?

“You said your head doesn’t hurt when I’m around, yet you tell me to shut up,” Kim Dokja snarks, because he’s suddenly forgotten how to do anything else.

A string of unintelligible grunts tickle his skin. Yoo Joonghyuk’s arms tighten, and Kim Dokja sighs in relief involuntarily. Fuck. He’s been pavlov’d.

What is it that Bruce Lee said? I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once but the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times…

Like clockwork, Kim Dokja melts. Begrudgingly, he brings his own arms around Yoo Joonghyuk and rests his head against his, and, fine, okay, alright—he’ll admit it: Yoo Joonghyuk’s won this time around. A clean victory. But he’ll be sure to win the next round and the succeeding rounds after. He’ll be sure to hammer into Yoo Joonghyuk’s excruciatingly stubborn head how his kisses make him feel like exploding several times at once. How overwhelming it can be despite all the giddiness. How this surely can’t be any good for his heart. Two plus two, four.

In the corner of his eye, Kim Dokja spots his phone screen light up. The bottom is pressed against Yoo Joonghyuk’s back, his hug having been happily returned, and so Kim Dokja tilts his palm just the slightest bit upwards, squinting, and—

You have 1 new message

The Devil
15k won or im telling your mom and yoo joonghyuk lmao

He hurls his phone at the wall.

The moment’s all ruined; Yoo Joonghyuk startles just slightly, pulling back. Sees Kim Dokja’s face, all of a sudden a deep red fury. He glances to the side at the phone now on the ground. The screen protector’s probably newly broken. He glances back at Kim Dokja. Phone, Dokja. Phone, Dokja.

“???” says Yoo Joonghyuk.

Kim Dokja hides his face in his palms, internally crying his heart out on behalf of his wallet, and offers no sort of explanation.

+

“Alright,” Kim Dokja smacks a hand against the whiteboard. “You might be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today—”

“The Melancholy of Yoo Joonghyuk,” Jung Heewon intercepts, dumbfounded. Her eyes flick from the emboldened large black letters across the board to Kim Dokja. “It says it right there.”

“I got paid to be here,” Han Sooyoung unhelpfully adds with a snicker.

Jung Heewon whips towards her. “What.”

“I’ll be treating everyone here to wagyu beef later on,” Kim Dokja clears his throat before Jung Heewon or anyone else can start hounding him for payment. “Except Sooyoung. So you don’t need to worry.”

“Oh,” Jung Heewon blinks. She leans back into her seat, appeased. “Okay. What is this about Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi’s… melancholy?”

“I don’t think Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi is melancholic,” Lee Hyunsung says sheepishly, “Sure, he looks dispirited most of the time, but he doesn’t strike me as the type to gloom.”

Yoo Sangah smiles kindly. “I think the title is a reference to some kind of pop culture, Hyunsung-ssi.”

“That’s exactly it!” Uriel squeals from the other end of the table, hair a frizzing mess as she unloads a bag of money. Wads of cash pile on top of each other. “The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya! A classic. You should definitely try watching it sometime, Hyunsung-ssi!”

They’re getting severely off-topic. Kim Dokja slaps the whiteboard again—twice, this time. The attention’s all finally back on him.

“Yoo Joonghyuk!” He motions frantically to the middle of the board: a terrifyingly domestic photo of Yoo Joonghyuk, bedhead and all. “Has been hiding a secret, danger-filled job from me. You’re all here to help me figure out what it is.”

Glancing at the photo, Han Sooyoung looks vaguely sick. “You couldn’t just ask him?”

“Sooyoung-ssi,” Uriel gasps wholeheartedly, sounding utterly betrayed, “That’d take all the thrill out of it! The fun, the possible misunderstandings. I mean, think about it. Imagine: Kim Dokja, Yoo Joonghyuk. One-sided worrying—not unlike pining! Silly misunderstandings. Angsty misunderstandings. Hurt and comfort! Post-make-up cuddles, eventual and grand declarations of love, stolen, secret kisses…” she trails off.

The group collectively ignores this. Leaves Uriel to giggle to herself about her nonsensical daydreams. Kim Dokja’s starting to regret ever starting this whole meeting in the first place. Alas.

He’s got a job to do.

The squeaks of a marker getting dragged across the board goes completely ignored by the group for the most part. Like always, Yoo Sangah’s the only one really paying attention. Lee Hyunsung would join her, but trying to shepherd three-plus women of hell descent is no easy task, so Kim Dokja understands. The others, though…

Kim Dokja pauses. Stops in his drawing. Glances over his shoulder for a moment.

Predictably, Uriel is gone. She’s starry-eyed, staring at the ceiling and murmuring to herself a hundred things Kim Dokja never wants to hear. Beside her, Han Sooyoung pilfers through her unattended piles of cash. Jung Heewon has a foot on the table and another on her chair. Justice never sleeps—is an unfortunate fact that applies even now apparently, at times like this.

Admonishing Han Sooyoung in a public setting does absolutely nothing, but she tries anyway. What are you, a thief? is useless, because hell, if that’d mean she gets to live a life of luxury and buy another pint of her favorite yogurt later on, then thief it is. Do you know how embarrassing you’re being; it’s making me feel ashamed just by looking at you, is a little better—not a lot, certainly! Because Han Sooyoung was born with the innate inability to feel even an ounce of shame, but it’s definitely… something. Definitely getting somewhere. Maybe a small bruise to her pride. A semi-effective insult on the cusp of a truly great insult.

Kim Dokja finally goes back to the board after silently applauding Jung Heewon.

“What…” he hears Yoo Sangah murmur distantly to herself.

The confusion, by all means, is understandable. Kim Dokja stops himself from whipping back around dramatically. Fret not, Sangah-ssi. The masterpiece has yet to have its finishing touches.

(He’s no Van Gogh, but a man can dream.)

The ink makes waves across the board. Yoo Sangah squints at it, focused. Kim Dokja feels pride and glee already starting to well up at the pits of his stomach. Finishing touches, finishing touches.

And then.

“Dokja-ssi!” Yoo Sangah chirps. Kim Dokja nods smugly. Finally someone’s got it. All thanks to his impeccable art skills, no less! “Are we playing pictionary?”

…?

“Sorry, what?” Kim Dokja says after his ego deflates like a popped balloon. He can’t believe his ears, so he blinks. “I think I heard you wrong, Sangah-ssi. Can you repeat that?”

She cocks her head at him.

“Pictionary,” she says. Looks back at the black, wobbly lines and the smudges surrounding it—Kim Dokja’s never been good at hand-eye coordination. “Is that, uh.” Kim Dokja is giving her the look of extreme anticipation and disappointment all in one. How does he do that? She winces. “…a horse?”

A horse.

A horse.

Kim Dokja’s a second away from losing his goddamn mind.

“Hm,” Jung Heewon’s somehow sitting back in her seat like a normal person, adding unhelpfully, “It looks more like a ladle, don’t you think?”

Scratch that. Kim Dokja’s going to jump out the window in T-minus five seconds.

“It could be a unicorn.” Uriel. “Look, the end—that twirl. Unicorns usually have horns, and they’re not necessarily straight.”

T-minus three seconds.

“…I think it’s a very nice drawing either way, Dokja-ssi!” Lee Hyunsung looks at him with bright, bright eyes. A stark contrast to Han Sooyoung, who looks him up and down after inspecting the drawing for a long, judgmental second.

T-minus two seconds.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

Closes it shut.

One second.

“I’m sorry,” she says with rare sincerity, which is worse than any insult or jab, “I genuinely don’t have anything good to say.”

An explosion sounds like many things. Namely, an explosion. But this one—this one that flares up and goes off and sets off all the sirens in Kim Dokja’s head as what feels like piping hot lava crawls up his face—sounds like a pathetic, downright pitiful bleat.

“This,” he taps his marker against his drawing, trying desperately to stave off the blush overtaking his—everything, “is a boot. Two boots, actually. Yoo Joonghyuk’s.”

“Oh…” Across the room, Uriel gives him a pitying smile. It’s no secret that Yoo Joonghyuk has mountains upon mountains of branded clothing, accessories, and shoes, gifted to him biweekly by the revolutionary Yoo Joonghyuk fanclub. “I’m sure they’re a very lovely pair of boots, Dokja.”

“Don’t—” Kim Dokja has made peace with the fact that he’ll feel this embarrassment for a decade straight, at the very least. He clears his throat. “That…” just makes things worse. “Is very nice of you. Thank you, Uriel.”

Yoo Sangah’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “You’re very kind, Uriel-ssi.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Uriel replies. “In fact, I’m a little ashamed of myself for not getting it the first few strokes. As the VP of the Yoo Joonghyuk fanclub and the founder of the Kim Dokja fanatics—”

The Kim Dokja what?

“—I should’ve known. I swear I’ve seen all the gifts Yoo Joonghyuk got from our club, they’ve been burnt into my mind. Personally inspected by yours truly, in case any ill-intentioned non-fan managed to slip past our security. And not all boots have the same sheen and quality that you’d see from Dokja’s drawing. That luster, that shine!” She wails, “I should’ve known!”

Next to her, Jung Heewon places a comforting hand on her back. Uriel is straight up crying. Still reeling, Kim Dokja is frozen in place. He hasn’t been able to get it together ever since she started her little tirade.

Han Sooyoung stands up with a groan, snatching the marker out of his palms and decides to take charge, because fuck—someone has to!

“Blood!” Han Sooyoung exclaims, circling the poorly drawn boots on the board. She throws her arms out, gesturing aggressively in distress. “There’s blood on that bastard’s boots! Every time he disappears suddenly in the middle of the night!”

Lee Hyunsung winces. “Oh.”

Oh. Oh, indeed. Kim Dokja blinks unceremoniously. Riiiight. Back to reality. They were here to talk about his my-boyfriend-slash-apartmentmate-or-whatever-you-call-it-might-be-a-serial-killer-or-mafia-boss problem. These people in front of him have all graciously taken some precious time out of their day to sit here and entertain whatever this meeting was supposed to be.

“That’s concerning,” Yoo Sangah murmurs, her nose scrunched up in a grimace as the picture of a blood-soaked Yoo Joonghyuk pops up in her head.

“He killed someone,” Jung Heewon deadpans. “Of course. I’ve been expecting this. Who was it? Who were they?”

A string of curses leave Han Sooyoung’s mouth. “He didn’t kill anyone!”

Kim Dokja clears his throat. Considering the many nights he’d bothered Han Sooyoung awake with a barrage of texts speculating Yoo Joonghyuk’s dangerous, mystery-shrouded back alley job, he gets her exhaustion. He’s a bastard and he’s tired her out. Self-awareness is a virtue. “I’ve consulted with Han Sooyoung on the possibility of Yoo Joonghyuk turning out to be some kind of serial killer, but she quickly disproved that theory, even if it’s very much a probability.”

“Do you know anyone more strait-laced than Yoo Joonghyuk?” Han Sooyoung retorts, which is. Well.

Murmurs of agreement sweep across the room.

Moral compasses have never been Kim Dokja’s strong suit. All those distinctions between good and bad, the insistence to stick to some code or whatever—never really understood it. Sure, he gets most things. The usual. The must-knows and must-believes, like what crime is and that you should never commit something so heinous you’d be sent to court where the judge will be giving you the worst stink-eye known to man. But it’s never been something he’s been particularly tenacious about; if someone told him to rob a bank for a perfect GPA, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Sue him.

Yoo Joonghyuk, on the other hand, is infamously known for his stiflying values. And not in a justice-should-always-prevail way like Jung Heewon, but an exclusive Yoo Joonghyuk way. And the point here is that he’d rather die than go against any of his values.

Any.

After the murmurs dwindle, a beat of silence passes.

“Maybe he’s a stripper.”

“Heewon!”

“What?! I’m just putting it out there!”

Han Sooyoung fake-gags. “God, no. Have you seen him? He’s all stiff and tense limbs. And he’d kill anyone who’d even think to suggest anything sensual.”

“Except for Dokja-ssi.”

“Obviously.”

“I think mafia consigliere is a good guess, Dokja-ssi!” Lee Hyunsung, the light of his life. Kim Dokja holds himself back from crying happy tears.

“What about something more tame?” Yoo Sangah offers. “Like a thief.”

“He’d beat thieves up as a way to pass time.”

Yoo Sangah considers it. Then she nods solemnly, sighing. “I find it hard to picture Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi taking part in any kind of crime, honestly. Organized or otherwise.”

“…How about a superhero?” Lee Hyunsung suggests. “With the surge of heroes these past few years, it’s not too far-fetched.”

“Ooh! How exciting!” Uriel whips out a notebook and pencil from her money bag. There’s a horrifying glint in her eyes, her hand moving across pages at approximately twenty-five miles per second. “Yoo Joonghyuk, as a superhero! So many possible, fitting superpowers—”

Her mouth snaps shut abruptly.

“Dokja,” she jerks towards him; he startles. Falls back slightly in fear. And then he gulps, because Uriel suddenly sounds gravely serious. “How do you feel about a villainous career transition for yourself?”

Kim Dokja wants to die.

“Hero x Villain has been a popular, well-loved trope by the masses for years,” Han Sooyoung nods deeply, encouraging her. Her back has relaxed, hovering against the whiteboard. “The tension, the fights, the ‘reluctant’ alliances…”

Uriel throws her arms across the surface of the table, swiping the tissue paper in the middle in one fell swoop, and cries, “Precisely—”

She’s cut off by a squawk as Han Sooyoung tumbles backwards, landing on her ass.

She got too relaxed—she was about to lean against the board, forgetting its fragile, thin supporting poles, the wheels attached to the bottom. Next thing she knew, she was leaning back but not leaning back because the board was getting pushed back along with the force of her body.

The whiteboard rolls backwards at one side. The actual board spins and spins and spins. The domestic photograph of Yoo Joonghyuk flits into and out of sight, starting to meld with something entirely different—flashes of blue and red. Panic rises in Kim Dokja’s gut.

When the board finally stops spinning, there is a collective gasp.

“Shit, uh.” Han Sooyoung, now a little less disoriented and a lot more awake, picks herself up from the ground and stares. “Um.”

Jung Heewon offers up one word that perfectly summarizes her thoughts: “Damn.”

At the center of attention is a conspiracy board of possible Spidey Identities much smaller than the wall Kim Dokja has yet to tear down at home. In his defense, it isn’t his fault the debriefing session he just had with his club of fellow spidey-enthusiasts commenced right before this meeting. Granted, the debrief was hosted on zoom, but it was the last one Kim Dokja would attend for good—he wanted to go all out. Spidey-fan #1551 cried. Kim Dokja almost cried along, almost took back his resignation letter. It had been quite the emotional affair.

Now though, with two boards focusing on the hidden identities of two completely unrelated people revealed, the crowd before him shocked into silence, he knows what this might look like.

“I don’t have a weird fetish,” he says hurriedly.

“No, no. None of us were thinking that, Dokja-ssi. Honest! It’s just…” Yoo Sangah tries, even as her smile is horribly twitchy. Kim Dokja cannot meet her eyes. “It’s lovely that you have such a detective-like hobby.”

“Ah! Right!” Uriel exclaims after a nudge from Jung Heewon. She nods vigorously. “Mystery is great for stimulating the brain! Exactly that! It gets you thinking, gets you using a lot of soft skills that you don’t use too often in a fun way and—”

Kim Dokja breathes in slowly. Han Sooyoung claps him on his back in hopes of offering him some semblance of comfort, but it just comes off as awkward. Very pointedly, she does not meet the rest of the company’s eyes either—she was the only one that knew of his obsession with unmasking Spiderman and, as she’s learned after serving as Kim Dokja’s right-hand in and out of club activities, second-hand embarrassment is a truly horrifying thing.

Eyes landing on a particular picture, Yoo Sangah’s face pales with recognition. “Is that Han Myungoh from Business—”

“I’m getting better,” Kim Dokja insists, cutting her off. The Han Myungoh theory was the single most regretful and ridiculous thought he’d ever entertained for far too long.

Jung Heewon eyes him skeptically.

“What do you mean,” she says slowly, “you’re ‘getting better’?”

And it’s like he’s reliving coming out as a gay man, only in far worse circumstances and context, when he admits, “I was a big spidey-nerd.”

“A spidey—” Jung Heewon snaps her head around. Kim Dokja can still see her entire body shaking with oncoming laughter. After an extensive inhale and clearing her throat, she turns back to him. “A spidey-nerd’s no big deal. We all have our interests. It was just… jarring to us when we realized you were obsessing over the secret lives of not one, but two people.” She adds, “As long as you haven’t devolved into becoming a stalker, I have no complaints. You’re good.”

And then she stares for an elongated beat at the pictures of Spiderman and his possible identities.

“Okay, no, I’m sorry, I—” She whips back around, keeling over. “I can’t keep a straight face!”

“Heewon!”

Kim Dokja has his face buried in his palms. “Listen,” he says, albeit muffled, “I was obsessed with him because he saved my life,” he throws his hands out, revealing his beet red face, “and it’s not like—not like it isn’t understandable! We had—had a one-on-one conversation and everything! He was an asshole but sweet and he told me that we knew each other personally so of course I—”

“Oh my god,” Jung Heewon cuts him off. “You had a crush on Spiderman.”

“Yes—no—fuck—”

Uriel falls dramatically, a hand folded in a frail manner over her forehead. Lee Hyunsung side-steps behind her just in time to catch her.

“Dokja,” she weeps—and is that a tear rolling down her cheek? “Please don’t tell me that happened after you and Yoo Joonghyuk started dating.”

“That’s the thing,” he stresses. “After we started dating, I realized I needed to stop all this. So I did! I’m trying to! I just need to get rid of a bit more from here and the apartment, and I’ll finally be completely spidey-free.”

“I think it’s cute,” Yoo Sangah smiles. “Superheroes are like celebrities, aren’t they? A crush on Spiderman’s equivalent to a crush on a big actor or actress. Or an idol.”

“It’s interesting that Spiderman mentioned that you knew him personally, though,” Lee Hyunsung points out.

“That’s… true,” Jung Heewon says thoughtfully after finally managing to compose herself. “Actually, hey. I’ve got a few cop friends that have been worked to death by him. Slippery bastard, they say. Think you’ve got an idea of who he might actually be under that mask?”

Kim Dokja narrows his eyes. “You’re going to expose him?”

“No, I’m going to keep it to myself and laugh mockingly at those asshole seniors whenever they fail to get him three more times in a row.”

Lee Hyunsung makes a helpless noise. “That’s not very nice, Heewon-ssi. Our seniors were very nice to us.” He pauses. “Kind of.”

“Whatever the case, my efforts came up fruitless. Sorry to disappoint,” Kim Dokja waves their hopes away, much to Jung Heewon’s dismay, “Thinking back, I was being oddly naive. Besides, now that I’m no longer so obsessed with uncovering Spideman’s identity, I realize I’d be invading his personal space too close for comfort. Even if we really did know each other, he might be someone I’m not at all close to. It’d be uncomfortable.”

“Okay, but, by the off-chance that he was someone you knew, say, intimately—”

“Please don’t suggest that Yoo Joonghyuk is Spiderman,” Kim Dokja interrupts Uriel despairingly. And then, to himself: “It’d be embarrassing to find out that the two different crushes I had turned out to be on the same person.”

“It’s not like he got the chance to meet the guy again after that one time, anyway,” Han Sooyoung adds. A rare helping hand. Kim Dokja nods, a little forlorn about it.

“I got saved by him once, sure—but after? Never met him again after. As his hero self, anyway—no idea about his civilian self. But it… was a pipe dream, I guess. He’s swinging through Seoul saving lives, and I was just one of the lives he managed to save. A speck of dust. The chances of us meeting again and having another one-on-one conversation is slim, even with the fact that we live in the same city. Seoul is big. There’s no way—”

The floor caves in.

Someone shrieks.

This is not good.

Blood-curdling screams rise and surround them. Kim Dokja’s voice soon joins in. An admittedly embarrassingly high-pitched orchestra about toeing the line between life and death. In the corner of his eye, he swears he can see cherub angels and hear the beginning of a melodic choir signaling his rise to Heaven—or fall to Hell. The second one’s more probable—but that’s besides the point!

Kim Dokja’s screaming at the top of his lungs. Has never stopped. Oh god. Oh god. He’s going to fucking die, dropping all the way down from the second floor of this cafe, without ever quenching his thirst for knowledge. He’s going to die after admitting to being a fucking spidey-nerd to his small gaggle of infuriating yet impossibly still-lovable friends.

He squeezes his eyes shut, tears welling and last words ready on the tip of his tongue. And he’s never been a religious man, but, please, if some higher being is truly up there, please—

Tell him what Yoo Joonghyuk’s position in the mafia is when he crosses over.

He waits and waits for the impact. The thud. The pain. Nothing comes.

He cracks open a wary eye just as he feels a warmth settling under his knees and back.

“You!” Spiderman fumes. “I told you to stay out of trouble!”

Spiderman saved him more than half a year ago. There’s no way he remembers that. This must be the afterlife.

There are insects fluttering around in Kim Dokja’s stomach. They don’t have eight legs but wings to help them float about in his gut. It’s disgusting, but they won’t go away.

“Spiderman,” Kim Dokja’s voice breaks, and he’s seemed to have lost all the strength in his limbs but that’s okay because he’s in the arms of Seoul’s beloved not-so-friendly superhero, and said superhero presses him close. Blearily, Kim Dokja registers himself saying, “I’m not fragile, don’t—”

“Kim Dokja,” Spiderman says scathingly, “Shut the fuck up and hold on.”

“Hold on, right, yeah, I’ll—” Kim Dokja wheezes over a handful of realizations and a mindbreaking, refreshing rediscovery of what certain things do to him, like pecs and deep voices and fuck fuck fuck.

Fuck him for having a type, honestly.

His arms scramble around Spiderman’s neck. Foolishly, he concludes their once-in-a-lifetime mid-swing interaction with a dumbfounded, “Don’t swing too high.”

And he can’t see Spiderman’s face at all like this, chin over shoulder and spandex mask against the side of his cheek, but he knows the hero’s rolled his eyes when he replies, “I wouldn’t forget about that in a million years, you absolute fool.”

In his heart, Kim Dokja issues a well-deserved apology towards Yoo Joonghyuk.

Spiderman glares at absolutely nothing and says little else. He swings to the next building with Kim Dokja still in his arms.

+

“Heewon-ssi!” comes Lee Hyunsung’s voice, tumbling towards the makeshift trampoline-slash-cushion made up of web fluid opposite to the one he landed on alone.

“I’m—fine. I’m fine.” Jung Heewon hauls herself up, accepting the offer of Lee Hyunsung’s extended hand. “What about—”

“Everyone else is alright!” Yoo Sangah, across the rubble-filled, torn-down room, shouts. She hesitates for a moment before she adds, “Dokja-ssi’s been kidnapped, though!”

“What—”

In a matter of seconds, Jung Heewon and Lee Hyunsung hound Yoo Sangah with a billion questions. Uriel is knocked out beside them. Han Sooyoung readily tunes them out, eyes swishing from one corner of rubble to the next, then the sky, and spots Spiderman.

She narrows her eyes at the two: superhero and civilian. Said superhero had swooped in like a fired bullet, fast and deafeningly loud with the crunch of concrete and wood. He had grabbed everyone in quick and rapid succession, grabbing onto arms or legs, and dropped them to the ground with calculated spidey-webs that act like trampolines, cushioning their falls. And then, inexplicably, Spiderman zeroed in on Kim Dokja.

Han Sooyoung was screaming alongside everyone else, of course, because dying wasn’t a very attractive proposition, no, but she was also much more acutely aware of her surroundings than anyone else, right then and there.

She saw everything. She heard—maybe not everything, but most things. But that wasn’t the important part. No. The important part was—

She recognized that voice.

Han Sooyoung watches on as the two swing weirdly close to the ground. The danger’s all gone, the villain probably thousands of miles away already, and yet Kim Dokja has not let go of Spiderman and vice versa. He is being so carefully carried—Spiderman’s arms looped under his knees and back, his chest an inch away from his face—that Han Sooyoung kind of wants to throw up.

Then she vaguely recalls Kim Dokja talking about his crushes on both Yoo Joonghyuk and Spiderman.

“Huh,” says Han Sooyoung, enlightened.

And so it goes.

+

It persists. In fact, it gets even worse.

It being the peculiar state of affairs of the Yoo Joonghyuk-Kim Dokja household, the latter of the two concerningly obsessed with the former’s secret job alongside a sprinkle of existential crises here and there all with roughly the same catalyst—namely, re-realizing how attractive Spiderman apparently is.

Han Sooyoung would’ve never paid her admission fees if she knew college life would be like this.

Unlike the West, Seoul is forever safe from the atrocities of aliens and interdimensional beings. Spiderman is well-loved by the people; he’s the only thing keeping them from plunging head-first into complete and utter chaos, honestly, and Han Sooyoung appreciates him as much as the next person—however.

“God—I would’ve—” an old lady cries happily, latching onto a very familiar figure Han Sooyoung spots in the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she winces. The old lady throws her arms around Spiderman and straight up weeps. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you came just a little late! Oh, thank you so much, Spiderman! How could I ever repay you?!”

The grimace Spiderman makes goes unnoticed by the old lady. Han Sooyoung feels second-hand stress just from seeing this happen right in front of her. Spiderman—

No.

Yoo Joonghyuk, her brain amends as she shifts uncomfortably behind an enthusiastic reporter pushing past her to get to the hero. Yoo Joonghyuk has never been good with people.

Now that she knows his insidious secret, she realizes how awfully he’s been keeping it.

“Get off me,” The People’s Hero grunts. Off to the side, a gaggle of his fangirls squeal before fainting on the spot. Fascinating. Horrifying. Absolutely fucking ridiculous. Han Sooyoung needs her 5th cup of coffee of the day. “Ma’am,” Yoo Joonghyuk adds far too belatedly. “And—stay out of trouble. That’s how.”

With something that could only be described as pure and utter disbelief, Han Sooyoung thinks, At least get a voice changer, dude.

When Yoo Joonghyuk is long gone, leaving semi-dramatically with a couple of well-natured lipstick stains from the neighborhood ahjumma and a probably newly attained fear and aversion towards women past the age of sixty, her phone rings.

“Hello?”

[Sooyoung,] Kim Dokja says grievously, and Han Sooyoung already wants to hang up. [Does it make sense for me to like both Yoo Joonghyuk and Spiderman? Does that—does this mean that I’m—emotionally cheating on the love of my fucking life with—with—oh god, I can’t say it. Am I scum?]

Han Sooyoung really needs that cup of coffee right now.

She pinches the ridge of her nose, fleeing the dispersing crowd of spidey-onlookers, and says, “Ten thousand won, Dokja.”

Kim Dokja makes a surprised noise as if Han Sooyoung hasn’t been taxing him every time he does this. [Five.]

Fucking cheapskate.

She agrees just this once because she’s a kind soul despite popular belief. And because this whole situation’s kind of really hilarious and she does cackle to herself at times when a thought or two about it surfaces. Still, though—

It’s starting to tire out even her. She has to do something soon, put matters into her own unfortunately coffee-vacant hands, because she knows neither Yoo Joonghyuk nor Kim Dokja will either way.

Kim Dokja talks her ear off. The cafe Han Sooyoung had entered just two seconds ago gets pulverized by a villain flung by Spiderman’s superstrength. Her coffee spills onto the floor rather pathetically, so it’s understandable, really, when she considers becoming a super villain for a moment. Spiderman spots her near the murky, sad puddle of what was supposed to be her day’s savior and doesn’t look the least bit sorry.

Kim Dokja is still babbling nonsense into her ear, and revenge has never seemed so enticing.

+

rat bastard: Sooyoung
rat bastard: Sooyoung
rat bastard: Sooyoung

You: .

rat bastard: Hey. Don’t "." me

You: what the hell do you want at
You: 2 in the morning

rat bastard: So uh
rat bastard: Um
rat bastard: Uhh
rat bastard: So since the whole serial killer thing is written off
rat bastard: I think I’m living with a hitman?

You: .

rat bastard: Please stop "."-ing me

“Han Sooyoung,” Yoo Joonghyuk hisses, squinting at her phone. “Turn down your brightness.”

Mondays are horrible.

“Not the point.” Han Sooyoung shoves her phone into his face much more aggressively. “Fucking read what your boyfriend sent me at three-thirty in the morning three days ago. I get this sort of message at least five times a week.”

For a moment Yoo Joonghyuk is silent to read their conversation log, but then only levels a disinterested look on her upon finishing. Seriously?

“Are you desensitized to this?” she asks, flabbergasted, “To him? That’s what living together and sucking face every five seconds did to you: made you think this is normal.”

In his defense, this isn’t the most surprising thing one could expect from Kim Dokja; it very much falls within the range of Likely Kim Dokja Behavior, and it’s nothing close to the worst ones at the end of the scale.

“Not my problem,” Yoo Joonghyuk shrugs.

After all the trouble she went through to book a whole private room in one of her favorite cafes, he responds like this? In an impressive show of self-control, Han Sooyoung resists the urge to call Yoo Joonghyuk ten different variations of bastard and fucker in a row. She opts to unwrap the lolly she’s brought as emotional support instead, and crushes it in her mouth.

“I want five thousand won,”—crunch—“two cups of coffee weekly,”—crunch—“and an entire jar of my favorite candy,”—she takes out the lolly and points with it at Yoo Joonghyuk—“because this is most definitely your problem.”

The furrow between Yoo Joonghyuk’s brows deepens. “What—”

“Spiderman,” Han Sooyoung emphasizes and promptly relishes in the satisfaction that washes over her when Yoo Joonghyuk face pales in horror, “Yeah, that’s right, I know all about your big secret. A college student by day, a superhero by night—you’ve gone insane, you know that?”

“Who—” Yoo Joonghyuk looks positively constipated, struggling to form actual sentences. This is the best day of Han Sooyoung’s life. “What—how did—”

“You’re not exactly concealing anything besides your face, dumbass,” she says.

“You won’t tell anyone,” is what Yoo Joonghyuk replies with. Astute observation. Braincells working overtime. No fucking shit, Sherlock. She might be the devil, but she isn’t evil, come on. Still—he pauses, falters minutely. “…Will you?”

A kind, sensible, and overall decent person would respond with a comforting and reassuring, of course not! I’ll protect your secret with my life. It’s safe with me—or something similar. And Han Sooyoung feels that way. Truly. Because by some odd miracle and way of the world, Yoo Joonghyuk is one of two best friends she’d unfortunately sacrifice her whole fortune for (not that she’ll ever say this), but there’s just one thing—Han Sooyoung is also an opportunist, first and foremost.

She slides a roll of paper towards him with little fanfare.

Yoo Joonghyuk inspects it with a cautious eye and even more cautious hands as if it’s a cursed object. What the hell, man.

“This is…” he squints at it.

“My bank account number,” Han Sooyoung takes a sip of her coffee, careful to not get any foam on her lips. Ah. Bliss. “I’m offering you a deal, Yoo Joonghyuk. Five thousand won per week and—”

“No.”

Han Sooyoung’s utopian mind palace shatters into pieces. “No?”

Yoo Joonghyuk rips the roll of paper straight down the middle. Han Sooyoung gapes at him.

“You’re not going to do shit, Han Sooyoung,” he declares. And yeah, okay, it’s not like he’s wrong, damnit but couldn’t he have said that a little more—delicately?

She decides to ignore him and swivels the topic of their conversation back around somewhere between their two favorites: What-Did-Kim-Dokja-Do-Now and Hey-Your-Communication-Skills-Suck-How-Is-Your-Relationship-Holding-Up.

(She’s been working on shorter names. Obviously, it hasn’t been going well.)

“It’s been a year into your relationship—”

“Eight months,” Yoo Joonghyuk corrects.

“Okay, eight months—”

“And thirteen days,” he adds.

“—and thirteen days.” She gives him a pointed look, then clears her throat. “And I’ve never seen Kim Dokja so anxious before.”

This, unsurprisingly, is what fully grabs Yoo Joonghyuk’s attention. “What.”

Finally.

Wordlessly, Han Sooyoung gestures towards the roll of paper with her bank account number with a flick of her eyes. Yoo Joonghyuk’s displeased expression is insanely satisfying, the long-suffering and grueling drag he does to grab it and shove it into his pocket even more so.

Han Sooyoung leans forward in her seat and rubs her hands together like a scheming fruit fly. “It’s been going on for a while. You disappear, he wakes up, sees you’ve disappeared, then panic-calls me in the middle of the night. Meanwhile, Spiderman is swinging through the city of Seoul, kicking ass and taking names. Sometimes Dokja pauses for a bit when he spots you on—the TV, or something, and descends into this hilarious crisis about finding Spiderman almost—almost, he never forgets to say!—almost as hot as his boyfriend. Which is,” she does a vague gesture with her hands, snickering, “funny.”

“Get to the point, Han Sooyoung,” Yoo Joonghyuk demands angrily. Angrily? Hard to tell. He always looks angry.

Han Sooyoung rolls her eyes. Fuck this dude. She will never understand Kim Dokja’s attraction to him. His looks are okay, but his personality immediately brings his score all the way down to the negatives, holy shit. How does he do it?

Anyway.

She gets to the fucking point.

“I want emotional compensation.”

“For handling my boyfriend,” Yoo Joonghyuk says dryly.

“Yes. Do you know how many cuddling sessions with Sangah I’ve had to ditch to calm him? And it’s like—it’s like I’m his boyfriend, sometimes. Like, hey, these are boyfriend duties I’m taking over. Calming him down at ass o’ clock. Rushing to his place to give him a hug. And don’t get me wrong—I love Dokja. Unfortunately. I love that bastard a whole damn lot. He’s like… the shitty brother I never had.”

The cafe’s best coffee has the perfect balance of sweetness and bitterness, Han Sooyoung distantly acknowledges. The blood, sweat, and tears it took to get a brew of nothing but utter perfection… Han Sooyoung will need to leave a large, whopping tip later on when she leaves. Do they accept tips here? Whatever. She’ll force a whole piggybank into the shopkeepers’ hands if she has to.

“Unfortunately,” she takes a long sip of her coffee, relishing, “that also means I have the god-given duty of threatening any and all of his lovers to treat him well.”

Yoo Joonghyuk gives a begrudging yet appreciative nod as if to say, As you do.

“You’re my friend, Yoo Joonghyuk. My only other best friend, besides Kim Dokja—this is also an unfortunate thing, by the way—so I don’t particularly like the idea of devising a plan to force you to become a eunuch.”

“…Is that—did you really just threaten to cut off my—”

“I’m stressed,” Han Sooyoung hisses, “I’m fucking stressed, Yoo Joonghyuk. I’m getting white hairs from this, okay? Emotional compensation out of the way, my ever-increasing and simultaneously decreasing stash of emotional support candy out of the way—he’s my best friend and he’s been worrying his fucking head over you for, what, months? And you’re my other-fucking-best-friend who I unfortunately love almost as much, and I’m not—I’m not blind, alright?”

“I don’t—” Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyebrows are drawn together and he frowns so very deeply. Obviously, he’s trying to say something but his brain’s probably overloaded due to the amount of sleepless nights he’s spent chasing villains all around Seoul, so he ends up landing on, “Blind?”

“You’ve been wanting to tell him about your big secret,” Han Sooyoung points out, withering tone and all. “For a long, long time, I’d bet. It’s been—what? Give me a date. Earliest you can remember.”

Yoo Joonghyuk goes rigid. The silence stretches between them like a piece of chewed gum. Han Sooyoung has run out of emotional support candy for the day, fuck.

Yoo Joonghyuk says something under his breath.

“What?” she snaps, a little ticked off, “Louder, asshole. I can’t hear you.”

And Yoo Joonghyuk, Spiderman, probably the strongest damn dude in the whole fucking country with or without his superpowers, mumbles just a tad louder, just enough for Han Sooyoung to make out:

“He thought I was confessing to him.”

Han Sooyoung blinks.

That, in itself, is not enough context.

She leans forward in her seat, places her coffee cup on the table separating them because it’s serious serious business from here on out. “As in, like,” she flings her hands around in front of her, “your relationship… you were trying to tell him about your, um, identity, and he thought you were…”

Yoo Joonghyuk nods slowly, solemnly.

“Oh, my god,” Han Sooyoung says. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

There’s an ear-piercing shriek bounding against the room’s walls soon after. Yoo Joonghyuk does a terrible wince and Han Sooyoung jolts up onto her feet and stomps over and—

Well.

Safe to say, if Yoo Joonghyuk were any other person, he’d be leaving the room scarred for the rest of his life. Han Sooyoung forces him to recite a thousand different promises regarding Kim Dokja’s happiness. There are some awfully concerning words exchanged between them—mostly said by Han Sooyoung, who started on a spiel on the seven hundred (and counting!) different ways she’s planned to get back at Yoo Joonghyuk should he break a single one of the promises or, god forbid, Kim Dokja’s heart.

By the time evening’s started coming in, the city is on the verge of collapsing. Buildings fall on beat with each cackle of some untimely villain in the far distance.

For once, Yoo Joonghyuk appreciates that crime never sleeps.

“Hey,” Han Sooyoung stops him briefly when he has one foot out the door and one hand ready to rip his shirt off to reveal red and blue, “Tell him. Soon. I can’t stand it. He worries to the point of losing sleep over you, did you know that? If something, if nothing, happens and he—”

“Han Sooyoung,” he interjects before she can spiral any further. There’s a complicated expression on his face; he understands, after all. At the end of the day, Kim Dokja is everything to him as well. “I know, I will. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Han Sooyoung only looks slightly convinced and conversely very hesitant to let Yoo Joonghyuk scurry along and away. Yoo Joonghyuk purses his lips and clenches his fists.

“I promise,” he adds, and she finally lets him go.

+

rat bastard: Mafia underling sounds a little too lame for someone of his caliber, you know?
rat bastard: So I was thinking…
rat bastard: Mafia boss.
rat bastard: Or, like, a consigliere. Like what Hyunsung-ssi said.
rat bastard: Mafia boss apprentice? It sounds… probable.
rat bastard: It’s a possibility, I mean. As are assassins, spies, smugglers, and other jobs that could have something to do with drugs…

You: .

rat bastard: ?
rat bastard: We’ve talked about the dots, Sooyoung.

<You have blocked this contact.>

Yoo Joonghyuk blinks.

“You’ve blocked him,” he observes.

Han Sooyoung lowers her phone. “Obviously, asshat. Now what?”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s frown deepens. The city is unusually peaceful, so he’s having his rare day off from everything and anything that could possibly bother him. Or so he thought. Number three on that list is one Han Sooyoung, who is very evidently not at least five meters away from his general vicinity. It is a peaceful day no more.

“Unblock him?” he says, like he’s truly at a loss.

“No,” she replies.

Yoo Joonghyuk blinks slowly. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Han Sooyoung.”

“That’s fair,” Han Sooyoung acknowledges begrudgingly. Yoo Joonghyuk moves away from the doorway to invite her into the apartment. When she steps inside, a disgusted look flashes across her face as her gaze flicks between Kim Dokja’s house slippers next to the shoe rack and Yoo Joonghyuk’s, on his feet.

“We don’t have any spare house slippers,” he says, insincerely, before shoving Kim Dokja’s free, unworn ones under the shoe rack. “We don’t have any guest house slippers,” he corrects.

“Okay, first of all, fuck you—” she steps in and Yoo Joonghyuk disappears into the kitchen briefly, “Second of all—no I don’t need water, sit your ass down in the living room, I’m here to give you a pep talk—”

And fine, Yoo Joonghyuk sits the fuck down. His fucking fault for trying to be a good and thoughtful host, he guesses, tending to an impromptu guest on a rare peaceful day.

“Second of all,” Han Sooyoung tries again, “Let’s get straight to it, the heart of the problem: you, Dokja, Spiderman.” She pauses. “You haven’t told him. At all.”

Dread consumes Yoo Joonghyuk like some kind of beast. “Oh.”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me,” Han Sooyoung snaps.

Yoo Joonghyuk takes in a breath, standing back up to make his way into the kitchen because he’s suddenly forgotten whether or not the stove’s been turned off (it hasn’t been used once today). Han Sooyoung is quick to catch on; the moment his foot shifts, she’s right behind.

“Hey. Hey, Yoo Joonghyuk.”

“No,” he says. Han Sooyoung’s ensuing disbelief at his generous reply is palpable, like there’s a sudden woosh of fuck do you mean, no? air that’s gone over the apartment. So he remedies with a succinct, “Fuck off.”

“Not fucking off,” Han Sooyoung declares. “Two days ago, I was woken up by Kim Dokja in hysterics. My phone—you know that god-awful ringtone I’ve set specifically for him? It went off like a fucking fire alarm at three in the morning. Now, this is fine. This is a new norm, ever since the two of you started dating. Ever since he started noticing your spidey-related disappearances. So I was ready to pick up the phone, groan as usual, get out a snarky comment or two about him being a worried spouse, and then tax him for Dr. Han’s reluctant ear. You know, the usual.”

Yoo Joonghyuk opens a cupboard and snatches the one fine china teacup he and Kim Dokja have, and he quotes, equal parental custody over. He opens up a drawer below and snags a packet of ginseng tea before tearing it open.

“Joonghyuk,” Han Sooyoung says, sighing, quieter than seconds ago, and if that didn’t set off enough alarms in Yoo Joonghyuk’s head then her next words definitely did, “He was out of it.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s fingers, looped around the base of the cup, freeze.

“It was one of his worse ones. I had to talk him through how to breathe, had to wake Sangah up and tell her the gist of it with—with gestures, you know, like—” She imitates holding a phone between her cheek and shoulder, pointing towards it frantically, with a tidbit of horror that could only be a tenth of what she probably felt two days ago, before letting her arms fall back down. “She grabbed the car keys and went out first while I shimmied on a coat and put on some shoes. I was in pyjamas, it was fucking freezing. Joonghyuk, he—”

And then the ginseng tea was abandoned. Forgotten. And it wasn’t like he had prepared hot water for it, anyway, so the cup lay on the counter for what it was: a sorry attempt at running away.

“He’s worried,” Han Sooyoung says, “about you. About your… general state of being.”

The silence between them stretches. Yoo Joonghyuk’s elbows sit against the cold marble of the kitchen counter, face against palm. The wall clock tick-tick-ticks.

“Look, I get it. The fate of the world on your shoulders, a heavy responsibility, all that—it’s all scary. Exhausting. But I’ve been observing you and Dokja ever since I put two and two together, and I know you’ve been itching to tell him for a long time.”

For a while Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t move, face fitted into his palms, trying to keep himself like this (together, unbroken—fucking fine, damnit), but nothing was allowing this, not today.

“I—” he tries, and he knows himself how pathetically this all comes off as, “I’ve tried. I have tried, alright? Something just kept coming up whenever I did.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Han Sooyoung sighs. “You can’t keep doing this, Joonghyuk.”

“I know.”

“This isn’t just something you can brush off.”

“I know.” His eyebrows press against a still-fresh scar on his pointer finger—it stings, just a little. “I wanted to tell him months ago. Years ago. A whole millennium. Realized how I needed someone to have my back when I had to slip away to fight a villain or two. I was hellbent on telling him even before our relationship started, because I needed someone to help me out every now and then. But now—”

He glances up. A second passes.

“…But now I know,” Han Sooyoung says, realizing. “Now you have someone that knows, so your motive’s a little lost.”

“Yes.”

“And yet, the want persists.” She leans against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’d wager you’ve been ‘trying’ to tell Dokja all about your superhero identity for months, at the very least. By now, you should’ve noticed yourself—how you’ve been subconsciously avoiding actually going through with it.”

“Your wager would be correct,” Yoo Joonghyuk says. “Sooyoung, I don’t—”

“You stumbled into a relationship with Kim Dokja by accident.”

He frowns, clenches his fists. “Never put it that way.”

She waves him off. “I won’t, yeah, you don’t have to tell me that twice. I’ve seen the way you look at him. That, in itself?” She shakes her head. “Could never be some kind of accident.”

Yoo Joonghyuk freezes, mind stopping stock-still at one point of her sentence. “How do I look at him?”

“Ew,” Han Sooyoung’s nose scrunches up. “No way am I describing that to you. Get a mirror and facetime him when I’m nowhere near either of you.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s frown deepens.

She rolls her eyes as if to call him an idiot, and Yoo Joonghyuk only barely managed to hold back snapping at her about something silly and insignificant, like, Who do you take me for? A fool? Kim Dokja?

“Like you’re in love, Joonghyuk. You look at him like you’re in love. Which you definitely are, by the way.” Han Sooyoung’s mouth briefly falls open before it snaps back shut, and she fights back a grimace when she asks, “You have realized this, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have. Unlike someone else, I’m no fool.”

“…Sure. And that means—” Han Sooyoung gestures, “—that you’ve told him that too, right? Outright. Verbally. That you’re perpetually, inexplicably in love with—”

Han Sooyoung watches his expression and seems to spot something Yoo Joonghyuk has no fucking clue about, because she jolts upright and wipes a palm down her face.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Han Sooyoung,” Yoo Joonghyuk warns.

Dutifully, Han Sooyoung ignores him and instead says, “Your relationship’s going to crash and fucking burn, dude.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand emotions. I understand people to a certain degree higher than you. I at least have the capability to understand, so just—”

“You can’t understand.”

At this, Han Sooyoung finally shuts up. Head turning, she watches Yoo Joonghyuk for a long moment.

“Oh, no.” She lets go of her arms. They fall back to her sides. And so, she scrambles out the kitchen in record time, record speed, footfalls sounding almost angry, and Yoo Joonghyuk hesitates only for a second before trailing after her, trying to call out to her. His calls of her name go ignored for the most part as the murmurs under her breath get louder by the second, “Fuck no. Fuck this shit.”

Then at the doorway, she swivels around and points at him accusingly. “Fragile masculinity?! Really? That’s the reason?!”

“That’s not—”

“No, no—your entire face, though inexpressive as it always is, let up just for a few seconds, and I could read it off your fucking nose,” she begins shuffling her shoes back on, looking away once more, dropping her voice a mocking octave lower, “‘Han Sooyoung, it shows weakness,’ ‘Han Sooyoung, vulnerability means weakness,’ ‘Han Sooyoung, I’m the great and all-powerful Yoo Joonghyuk and Spiderman, so showing a semblance of vulnerability is number one on the list, Top Ten Things I Can Never Do—’”

“Han Sooyoung—”

“Fuck off!” she hisses, snapping back around and facing him. “I can’t believe I went through all that trouble just to find out all of this is because of some kind of unresolved complex—”

“Sooyoung,” Yoo Joonghyuk manages, and she finally quiets down. “Calm down. I don’t understand why you’re getting so mad.”

“You don’t under—” Deep breath in, out. Trembling shoulders. Yoo Joonghyuk watches on, the dread never having left the pits of his stomach. And suddenly it wasn’t just about Kim Dokja. “Since when did emotions make you weak, asshole?”

“It… That’s not…” He swallows, struggling to find the right words. “That’s not the truth.”

“Isn’t it?” Han Sooyoung’s arms flap in the air and she stares right at him momentarily before moving towards the door. “Even though it’s your fucking philosophy?” She fiddles with the knob. Click, it goes.

“Vulnerability—” Yoo Joonghyuk tries reining in his thoughts, tries shaking off the thoughts of Kim Dokja and Yoo Mia and Han Sooyoung and Namgung—

No.

No, no.

Shit, fuck, damnit. God fucking damnit!

“Vulnerability does not equal weakness,” he finally manages, ignoring the tender way his voice splits right at the cusp of something unspoken and long buried. Han Sooyoung stills, hand stopping at the gold shimmer of the door knob, and waits for him to continue. So continue he did, “I know that. I know so. It’s just not the case with me. Vulnerability, weakness; not the same. But when it comes to superheroes, it’s different. The weakness you’re thinking of isn’t the same as mine.”

“Oh,” says Han Sooyoung. “So this ties back in with your superhero identity.”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve given up just like that,” she presses on, tone taking on a sharp edge. “Because of your superhero identity.”

And Yoo Joonghyuk stands there, in disbelief and an emerging fury, jaw clenched tight. Then he says, so scathing it leaves his throat feeling scorched from the inside out: “He could die, Sooyoung.”

But that wasn’t the full story, wasn’t the full reason behind his now evident hesitance in telling Kim Dokja about his identity. Han Sooyoung knew already, and Yoo Joonghyuk was sure he’d be able to keep her safe. He knows she’d be able to keep herself safe. The same goes for Kim Dokja—because Yoo Joonghyuk has never loved anyone weak.

Kim Dokja was strong. Kim Dokja was kind and nice and would understand scars without them being spoken about. He wasn’t as well-mannered, as kind-mouthed as Yoo Sangah, wasn’t as good with words or reading people as Han Sooyoung, but he was Kim Dokja, and Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t know how else to describe it: him being himself, that in itself, was as enough as it was wonderful.

Still. The possibilities—Kim Dokja, the color red, or mid-swing panic attacks, bruises on cheeks; Kim Dokja, a betrayed look splayed across his features; Kim Dokja, disturbed; Kim Dokja, looking at him with pity—

(Kim Dokja, running into the eye of the storm to save his life at the cost of his own. A possibility.)

“—Joonghyuk. Hey, Yoo Joonghyuk,” Han Sooyoung snaps her fingers in front of his face, sighs when he’s finally back, and turns. The door opens with a creak.

Then she steps out, staring at the long hallway of absolutely nothing.

“You need to sort through your shit, dude,” she says, and sniffles somewhere between one breath and the next. She wipes her nose with her sleeve, doesn’t deign Yoo Joonghyuk with another look, so Yoo Joonghyuk just watches her back. “You better tell Kim Dokja, you hear? Or else.”

Yoo Joonghyuk grapples with the doorframe, fingers flexing for a moment, before letting out an exhale. “Fine.”

“I’ll know, just so you know,” Han Sooyoung tells him pointedly, sharply, “I’ll know. So don’t ever try lying to me about it when you haven’t. ‘Cause I’ll fucking know.”

Yoo Joonghyuk mumbles, “I’ll tell him soon.”

“No—no,” Han Sooyoung shakes her head, shoulders shaking as she inhales deeply. Tick tick tick, echoes off the four walls of his mind. “Go at—at your own pace, Yoo Joonghyuk. Okay?” she says, not unkind, having figured something else, it seems, about Yoo Joonghyuk and the complexities behind superheroes and their identities, “Your own fucking pace.”

He stares.

His own pace, huh?

“…Okay.”

Yeah, he could do that.

Chapter Text

It’s raining. Yoo Joonghyuk’s knees are bruised against the asphalt.

His suit is ruined: almost half of his mask is gone, his bangs peeking out; where his suit has torn and ripped, his skin burns.

“Joonghyuk.” A weak voice—this weak call of his name, who is it? Yoo Joonghyuk realizes how small his hands are in this moment, fifteen with a world of possibilities in front of him. One-five. Fifteen.

Namgung Minyoung brushes her thumb against his palm, inspects it. There’s blood and dirt under his nails.

“What am I going to do with you?” she huffs disapprovingly, “Look at this. Haven’t I told you? Scolded you enough? Dirt’s fine, but how would your sister react if she saw this kind of red all across your hands?”

Yoo Joonghyuk wants to reply. He would love to. But he’s never been a great conversationalist. There’s a knot of words in his head and throat and it’s suffocating him but he truly, truly does not know how or what to start with—Stop talking, perhaps?

He’s shaking, but he doesn’t know it until Namgung Minyoung reaches her hand up to cup his cheek.

“Still so much baby fat,” she says mournfully, and laughs with what little strength she has. “Don’t look like that, you brat. Are you going to start crying?”

Yoo Joonghyuk shakes his head, but his vision has blurred and the world must be on fire because nothing feels right or saved. He scrambles to grab Namgung Minyoung’s hand on his cheek. Listens desperately for any oncoming ambulances, only to hear the deafening slowness of his teacher’s heartbeat.

(The closest thing he’s had to a mother. The person who gave him his birthday—)

Namgung Minyoung tries shushing him. “Joonghyuk,” she says, smiling. “Joonghyuk, you’ll be fine.”

No, Yoo Joonghyuk thinks feverishly. No. How would you know that?

Within the next second, Namgung Minyoung’s body goes entirely limp in his arms—and everything shatters.

+

Something crashes to the floor—Yoo Joonghyuk isn’t so sure what, clutching his side painfully as he recoils away from the desk he’s hit himself against. It’s dark, but a flicker of a second later it’s not. The lights are on and it’s blinding but everything is still blurry, the memory of Namgung Minyoung fresh in his mind as his knees hit the cold floor.

A pair of hands grip his shoulders. Their owner screams his name and—who? What? Is it Yoo Mia? Is he fifteen? Eighteen? Where is Namgung Minyoung? Tell him it was all a lie, a dream. Where is—

“Yoo Joonghyuk!”

Oh.

Instantly, anguish and relief overcome him. Anguish, because he knows now that it’s all real, the past. Everything happened, he is so many years older, and there is no bringing Namgung Minyoung back.

And then relief, because he knows this voice better than anyone else’s.

Kim Dokja’s fingers have a featherlight gentleness to them as they wipe away Yoo Joonghyuk’s tears—Yoo Joonghyuk hadn’t even realized he had been crying.

“Are you…” Yoo Joonghyuk hesitates after a silence. “Will you ask?”

A flash of worry and pain crosses Kim Dokja’s face. “Only if you’ll answer,” he says, not unkind.

Yoo Joonghyuk squeezes his hand.

“I want to hear your heartbeat, Dokja.”

It’s as if Kim Dokja needs nothing else—he’s read him like a book, knows him like the back of his hand, or however else it goes. All of a sudden, Yoo Joonghyuk is swaddled in something warm and nice, fingers raking through his hair. They fall at their sides to the floor and lie there. Yoo Joonghyuk closes his eyes, his ear planted against a white tee. A beating heart. The ins and outs of a breath. Yoo Joonghyuk finally remembers how to breathe then, too.

I love you, Yoo Joonghyuk does not say, because he is too afraid still. So instead he tilts his face up and presses a kiss right on Kim Dokja’s collarbone.

This one—he’s alive.

+

Nearly a week later, Yoo Joonghyuk finds himself face-to-face with a distressed Han Sooyoung.

He tenses, thinking about their prior promises. He hasn’t fulfilled them, hasn’t taken any steps towards fulfilling them. Shit.

“Han Sooyoung—”

He’s cut off by Han Sooyoung running at full speed towards him and glomping him. He blinks at the rare display of affection; a hug? Their friendship has never warranted one of those—hardly ever a friendly smile!

Yoo Joonghyuk stands frozen in confusion. It’s a long few seconds before Han Sooyoung finally releases him, eye bags as deep as her frown, and says, like a mourner: “I’m sorry.”

Yoo Joonghyuk has zero idea what she’s talking about.

“I didn’t realize how bad it was. I was—insensitive. Stupid.” She hangs her head as if in shame. Flaps her arms. “Dokja’s problems, your problems—I don’t understand either of them entirely. I shouldn’t have been so pushy with you.”

“Han Sooyoung,” Yoo Joonghyuk tries for stability; better one of them than none of them. “Explain it to me clearly.”

Then she finally looks back up at him, clenching her fists, looking like an infant about to start bawling, and Yoo Joonghyuk sighs deeply before leading the two of them away from the increasing crowd of onlookers.

“You don’t cry easily,” he murmurs.

“Shut up, asshole,” Han Sooyoung says, watery between hiccups and tears. She hits him on the shoulder with no strength. “If we don’t hug again, I might actually blow up. Let’s hug. Please. Or I’ll die from guilt. And worry. And sadness.”

Helpless, Yoo Joonghyuk can only obey.

“Holy shit, this is uncomfortable.”

“Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk agrees. “Now explain.”

“All right, yeah—fuck—” She takes a sharp inhale. “Okay.” Yoo Joonghyuk feels something wet land on his shoulder. “What I mean—is that,” Han Sooyoung hiccups, “you’ll be—okay. You’ll be fucking—fine! Okay?”

Yoo Joonghyuk softens.

“...Sooyoung.”

“Kim Dokja, your relationship, all your worries—no problem! A big deal, each of them, but you’ll solve them all in due time. At your own pace, however slow or fast. Baby steps are fine. Even smaller steps are fine, too. No one’s leaving, no one’s dying—no one’s fucking dying, I promise you this. Your superhero gig, those infuriating villains of yours? No one precious in your life will leave because of them. You’re strong, Dokja’s strong. Your kid sister’s probably the—hulk, or something, so I guarantee you we’ll all be safe. It’s a collective effort, but it’s something we’ll always do. So you don’t have to worry so much, all right?”

Yoo Joonghyuk sighs and shuts his eyes. He’s been missing too many of his classes as of late. He has a lecture in approximately two-point-five minutes, but he supposes it’s fine to miss it.

“Kim Dokja told you,” he murmurs.

“He did,” Han Sooyoung says. She tightens the hug, and her voice grows quieter. “He knows what it feels like. Being forced to talk about things you’re not ready to talk about—none of us want that for you.”

“I know.”

“Joonghyuk,” says Han Sooyoung, and Yoo Joonghyuk sincerely begins to wonder if she’s rushed here after having one too many bottles of alcohol. “Yoo Joonghyuk, you’re as annoying as you are precious to me.”

Emotions are contagious. Yoo Joonghyuk only nods, for fear of hearing his voice wobble.

“Have I—have I ever said that before?” Han Sooyoung asks, and they’re both messes in their own rights, but it’s fine. “I was frustrated, you know? Two of the people I can’t help but fucking cherish more than my own life sometimes are going through some kind of dull soap opera—and, fuck, I’m not saying your struggles are ridiculous, shit—I meant—fuck—”

“Han Sooyoung—”

“No, you stay quiet right now! The point is, I was fucking frustrated because the two of you were, and I don’t know how to deal with that! I know, it’s none of my business, but if this went on, how could I show my face in public, knowing the two of you?”

Oh. She’s crying.

“What else?” she sniffles, looks down at the ground. “I’m—proud of you. For all your efforts. It’s disgusting to hear Dokja gushing about how you two sleep in the same bed together now, but I’m glad you found a way to alleviate your nightmares.”

Yoo Joonghyuk laughs, small and a little wet.

Then Han Sooyoung sniffles a little more and says, “You’re doing well. There’s no rush to be alright.”

She lets him go shakily. Fully. Finally. For a moment, all she does is stare at him with that seemingly omnipotent gaze of hers. It’s scary how there are people who know him more than words could ever say. It should be unsettling, really; but Yoo Joonghyuk knows them in the same way too, so the eye-for-an-eye rule’s satisfied, and that’s the one thing you need in a life of superheroes and villains.

“Ugh,” Han Sooyoung gags and swats away whatever damning evidence of physical affection that was left behind, coming back to her senses. “Never speaking about this?”

“Never.”

“Even to Dokja?”

“...”

Yoo Joonghyuk averts his eyes.

Han Sooyoung lets out an affronted noise—rightfully so, too, she’d claim—and whacks his arm lightly. The lecture Yoo Joonghyuk had wanted to attend earlier in the day is a lost cause by now, but Han Sooyoung walks with him in that direction still. It’s nothing grand, but—

His shoulders feel a little lighter, Yoo Joonghyuk finds.

+

Yoo Joonghyuk wakes up apropos of nothing.

He must’ve had a life-changing dream, something along those lines. He doesn’t quite remember what it was exactly or how it went, but it wasn’t a nightmare, at least—he’d know.

Instead, he feels a little dazed on his feet as he squints at the darkness of his room, stumbling out into the light.

Walking to the kitchen is muscle memory by now. The surprise he finds there is the sight of Kim Dokja hovering between the stove and their small pantry. The counter has a carton of eggs placed on it.

“Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk whispers.

Kim Dokja startles slightly and whips around. “Good morning. Were you looking for me?”

Yoo Joonghyuk fixes a glare on him. “It’s two in the morning.”

“I don’t see a problem with—oh.” His eyes light up in that way that means he has some stupid idea. Yoo Joonghyuk misses the quieter days. Kim Dokja clears his throat and grins. “Sorry for the late introduction, dear customer. My name is Kim Dokja. How may I take your order?”

Ridiculous. Yoo Joonghyuk breaks eye contact first, sighing deeply. “Forget it.”

“One order of Forget It coming right—”

“Dokja.”

Kim Dokja rolls his eyes playfully and turns back around. “Would it kill you to play along one of these days?” There’s the familiar tick-tick-tick of trying to get the fire started, and alarm sirens finally go off in Yoo Joonghyuk’s head. He swipes Kim Dokja palms, drops them, then grabs his face.

“Why are you awake,” he demands.

“I was hungry,” Kim Dokja grumbles, avoiding Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze. “Woke up in the middle of the night because my stomach was rumbling so loudly I was surprised your eardrums didn’t burst.” He swats away his hands, a little pink in the face.

But Yoo Joonghyuk has never been one for giving up, and so grabs his face once more, angling it towards him. He squints at the sight in front of him and finds himself getting a little frustrated; Kim Dokja hasn’t gotten any sleep recently—some nights even less than Yoo Joonghyuk.

Displeased, Yoo Joonghyuk frowns. “You should’ve woken me up, you fool.”

“You need as much rest as you can get.”

“And you don’t?”

Kim Dokja goes silent, eyebrows furrowed and lips a thin line—he knows anything and everything he could say in response will only be used against him.

Smart move.

“You’re unfair.”

“I am,” Yoo Joonghyuk easily agrees, before moving to press small kisses under Kim Dokja’s eyes, coaxing a laughter full of disbelief out of him.

“What’s this? Are you trying to kiss my exhaustion away? Kiss it all better?”

“Hm.” Yoo Joonghyuk says, very seriously, “It’s an age-old spell.”

Kim Dokja’s nose scrunches up. He reaches up and places his hands over Yoo Joonghyuk’s. “Did you drink? No, you don’t smell like alcohol. And you came home early and spent the rest of the day with me, so you couldn’t possibly have snuck out to get a shot or two…”

“Is it odd that I’m being affectionate?”

“The kisses? No. But joking around? And right after you’ve just woken up, too! You’re usually grumpy, or at least, very quiet. You’re not so vocal about stuff like this in general, either. Well, it’s not like you’ve waxed poetry, but I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Something in Yoo Joonghyuk unsettles. “I do.”

Kim Dokja softens. “I don’t mean anything bad by that, though. I like you like that.”

“But I don’t,” Yoo Joonghyuk admits, quietly. “I’ve been wanting to do this—try to be more open with affection, and you. I’d like to show it more.” He pauses. “And I’d like to tell you everything.”

“Joonghyuk,” Kim Dokja shifts forward and really looks at him, the curve of his mouth easing into something gentle and a bit more knowing. “I’m guessing you had a talk with Sooyoung.”

“I did.”

“Walked out the conversation with some life-changing realizations, I assume?”

“Yes,” says Yoo Joonghyuk. He unfolds one of Kim Dokja’s palms and presses a kiss right there. “I’d like to be more open in the way I love.”

Kim Dokja tangles their fingers together. His lips part thoughtfully as their hands drop between them.

“You love quietly, and you’ve never failed to make me feel loved,” he says. “You’re quiet in your loving, and that’s fine. I know how you express yourself just as you know me. You don’t have to change. It’s like what everyone says—sometimes, words aren’t needed.”

Here, Kim Dokja has taken to the impossibility of trying to avoid Yoo Joonghyuk even as they’re only a few millimeters away, but he’s always been good at making the impossible things possible.

And the thing is, they might both be fools in their own regards, but Yoo Joonghyuk has known this man like a fifth limb. He knows his mouth, has counted his lashes as they fell. When he steps forward, Kim Dokja takes a wobbly step back, and they do this until his back’s all but pressed against their dining table. He tilts Kim Dokja’s chin up.

Touch is one thing. That, and actions of care and love. Breakfasts prepared in the morning, shaking someone gently awake. Welcoming them home. Waiting to eat together.

But—words? Are they unneeded? Truly? How can you say, I love you with everything I am, with just a meager few words? Then it must be true: words are useless in this respect.

Ah, but the opposition challenges this notion. They say: none of these are needed, but they’re quite welcome. Here, it’s not just about secrets and vulnerability and everything words may entail. And besides, isn’t it nice to get your feelings out there? Just to say it simply, as you would with the day’s weather—good morning, goodnight, good afternoon: I love you. What would you like for breakfast?

If things unsaid pile up, then the things said should as well. Better to tell than keep when it comes to things like this so he doesn’t get to see the somber look that passes over Kim Dokja’s face every now and then. The look that persists and rises again and again too much for his liking, something sorrowful that stems from self-doubt. So—words, right? Are they needed?

“Sometimes, they are,” Yoo Joonghyuk murmurs.

Yoo Joonghyuk buries his face in Kim Dokja’s hair, placing his hands on Kim Dokja’s waist.

“Dokja.” He presses close. “You’re not used to this.”

Kim Dokja shakes his head. “No. No, I’m not.” He pauses, then laughs a little. “But you kiss me plenty already. You comfort me whenever I need it. We cuddle every moment we can. We’re hardly ever a meter apart. We’re disgusting, Yoo Joonghyuk. What else is there?”

Yoo Joonghyuk goes silent.

Kim Dokja lets out a strangled breath. “You’re going to cook for us both, aren’t you?”

Yoo Joonghyuk scoffs quietly. “That goes unsaid.”

A small chuckle. “Right. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—and I’m not. You’ve seduced me away from the stove. Look,” he pulls away and angles Yoo Joonghyuk’s face around. There it is: the shocking newly put distance between the countertop and every kitchen’s nightmare (Kim Dokja). “Since the moment you stepped into the kitchen and saw me there, I’d bet sirens went off in your head.”

Yoo Joonghyuk lamely stays quiet.

“But of course, that out of the way, cooking—quiet loving. Your kind.”

He looks back at Kim Dokja; they’re staring at each other now, and the silence stretches for another few seconds, a warmth particularly building around his neck and ears.

Kim Dokja blinks, and tilts his head. “Aw, don’t be shy, Joonghyuk-ah.”

“I’m not.” Yoo Joonghyuk turns and pulls away. He makes his way back to his natural environment: around the kitchen island. “Do we still have some of your mother’s kimchi?”

“We should have,” Kim Dokja stifles a laugh, amused, opening their fridge. “Ooh, it’s almost all out. I’ll ask her to bring some next time she visits.”

“Mn.”

“You really like her homemade kimchi, huh?”

“It surprises me that you two are related.”

“Hey! Cooking skills aren’t hereditary!”

“Sure.” Yoo Joonghyuk switches on the stove before the exhaust, and unscrews the cap off their oil. “Do we still have rice?”

“Yes. And I was just going to reheat some chicken earlier before you unlawfully stopped me—”

“I can make some right now.”

Kim Dokja makes a warbled noise of disbelief. “See, I can’t fathom how and why you willingly go through the trouble of cooking when there’s food readily available.”

“I refuse,” Yoo Joonghyuk replies indignantly, “to eat cheap food.”

“You never even eat fancy food!”

“They taste cheap as well.” Yoo Joonghyuk deadpans, “They’re scamming their customers, all of them.”

Kim Dolja gawks at him, “You’re impossible when it comes to food.”

It’s the truth. Anyone who knows Yoo Joonghyuk knows it to be true. He’s surprisingly picky with food, though there are rare moments where he accepts convenience store food. Kim Dokja has a running theory that he’s secretly a fast food fanatic with an ego too high to admit it. Why else would he wipe the dishes he got him on multiple prior occasions clean?

Yoo Joonghyuk huffs. “Come here.”

Albeit confused, Kim Dokja does just that.

It’s always a surprise when they kiss.

This time around, it’s longer than a peck—long enough for Kim Dokja to have the time to process things a little and shut his eyes. But it’s still too short for either of their liking. Yoo Joonghyuk carefully asks, “Do you have anything you want to eat?”

He can’t help but laugh a little when Kim Dokja says little else before pulling him back in for a longer kiss. It’s heavy, this time, and it dissolves into smaller, quicker pecks a few minutes down the line.

Helplessly, Kim Dokja sighs. “Anything you make tastes good. Better than any Michelin-starred restaurants, you know this. I’d bet my kidney that you can cook anything.”

Yoo Joonghyuk shakes his head, amused. “You’d lose it.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow rises curiously on Kim Dokja’s face. “Are you telling me there’s a meal the Yoo Joonghyuk can’t cook?”

Yoo Joonghyuk hums. “My childhood favorite.”

Kim Dokja stares at him eagerly. Yoo Joonghyuk lets himself smile a little wider, a little more open.

Absently, a memory rises in his mind, soft like a cloud. Yoo Joonghyuk can make out the lines of three smiles. He recognizes the silhouette of his baby sister. He recognizes his own. Almost, it feels like he can smell Namgung Minyoung’s cooking.

The streets were cruel. They were terrifying. And when Namgung Minyoung took these two siblings in, her restaurant was worn and drab, but it was better than nothing. Really, Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t understand gratitude at that time. While Yoo Mia quickly warmed up to the burly woman, it took him a while.

“Huh,” Kim Dokja remarks, “I never thought you’d have a favorite food.”

“Hm.”

“Tell me some more about it?” he prompts timidly.

Yoo Joonghyuk turns down the stove flame. “It was warm,” he offers.

“Ooh,” Kim Dokja grins. He leans his head against Yoo Joonghyuk’s bicep. It’s quite welcome.

“Tasted nice.”

“Really?”

A glare.

“Right, right, sorry. Continue.”

A huff. “It…” Was the first luxury he and Mia could truly afford after so many years with only each other. Was the definition of home to the both of them, after some time. Warmed his stomach and heart and body. Was always served at a big table, as if for a family to eat.

Truth be told, it was all meager—the portions, the size, the amount. And yet.

Yoo Joonghyuk regrets not studying the dictionary like SATs. He’s not nearly mastered enough about the peculiarities of words and how to give shape to things he’s always thinking about. In this respect, perhaps he should ask for Han Sooyoung to tutor him one day.

“Joonghyuk-ah,” calls Kim Dokja. Yoo Joonghyuk blinks and turns to him. His mouth parts. His chest warms. He doesn’t know what to say. He never does.

So all he offers is—

“Have you heard of murim dumplings?”

Chapter Text

It gets better.

It gets better, because everything was a little worse than usual before that, and when all time does is move forward, you don’t really have any choice but to do the same.

Yoo Joonghyuk could pick at the details. Complain, to the privacy of his own thoughts, the small things that he’d like to have improved. But crime rates have been at an all-time low recently. So yes, everything’s good. Yes, everything’s a bit better. Yes, he has more time for his normal life and yes, he likes waking up to Kim Dokja’s face and lingering for a bit longer than these crime-addled streets usually allow.

So. Well.

The verdict’s in: it’s been a good few days. A really good few days.

He thinks Kim Dokja’s noticed too, this good mood of his. In fact, it’s like the Earth has turned on its axis for him, because Kim Dokja has started acting weird.

Not to say that he doesn’t in the first place, of course. But it’s—not the same. He’s started doing even more randomly ridiculous things every time they see each other. Their mornings are so mushy that even Yoo Joonghyuk has to admit that it’s vomit-inducing. And Yoo Joonghyuk gets it, he does. He can read between the lines to a certain extent. There’s nothing better than seeing the one you love so content. And mushiness, for better or for worse, is contagious, and this time around, it might’ve actually started from him.

And really, he’s not complaining.

When the sun’s up, Yoo Joonghyuk wakes up first. As usual. He blinks away the light and shifts a bit in bed to block it from Kim Dokja—let that man sleep in peace for a little while longer. To his dismay, Kim Dokja stirs, nose scrunching uncomfortably as he subconsciously scoots closer to Yoo Joonghyuk.

Carefully, Yoo Joonghyuk keeps himself so very still. His left arm, sandwiched between his bedsheet and Kim Dokja, is concerningly numb. Not a big deal, all in all.

He brushes his fingers against Kim Dokja’s bangs. Again, Kim Dokja stirs. Again, Yoo Joonghyuk freezes. And when Kim Dokja’s safely snoring away once more, the cycle repeats. And then it doesn’t, after a while.

Kim Dokja grumbles as he wakes up. He squints at Yoo Joonghyuk, takes a few seconds to finally wake up, and then glares.

“What time?”

“Six. Friday.”

Kim Dokja groans. “You wake up too early. It makes me wake up early, too.”

“I have class.”

“Not at six,” Kim Dokja says, muffled by a pillow as he rolls across the bed. Yoo Joonghyuk retrieves his arm from the gallows. “And I don’t have class. Not on Fridays.”

That’s true. “I don’t have any on Thursdays,” Yoo Joonghyuk says.

Kim Dokja turns to him with a look of exasperation that—why? Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t quite understand the trigger.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have time to think about it; his responsibilities to keep the city safe from villains out of the way, his body clock’s always kept him on a rigid schedule. Wake up at six, breakfast at seven, etcetera. He rises from the bed after landing a quick kiss on Kim Dokja’s head.

“Boo,” Kim Dokja says disapprovingly. “Skip class, you bastard. Your lover’s over here moping. How dare you leave him to his own devices?”

“I can’t just skip classes, Dokja.”

“You’ve skipped too many, you mean,” Kim Dokja says, shuffling to a sitting position. He grabs Yoo Joonghyuk’s wrist. “What’s one more?”

Yoo Joonghyuk glares at the man. Kim Dokja glares back. Five seconds. Seven. Ten. Fifteen. A minute.

…Aaaaggghhhhh.

Yoo Joonghyuk admits defeat.

He sighs. Kim Dokja grins as if he’s just won the world cup, then laughs—Yoo Joonghyuk’s undisputed Number One Sound—when Yoo Joonghyuk lets go of his reins against his better judgment and precariously glomps him. They fall back to the bed with a soft thump.

“You’re too weak, Yoo Joonghyuk.” Kim Dokja places his hands over Yoo Joonghyuk’s hair and kisses him on the forehead when he looks up. “How embarrassing for you.”

“Shut up,” grumbles Yoo Joonghyuk.

“Will I ever?” Kim Dokja sighs mock-dreamily, then presses his palms to Yoo Joonghyuk’s cheek before pushing his fingers down his forehead.

If this were anyone else, they’d be dead before they knew it.

“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk says stiffly, watching the other man mimic his manmade furrow. “What are you doing.”

“Entertaining myself.” A thumb presses into the space next to his lip. On the opposite side, another does the same. “What a nasty frown. Why don’t you smile a bit, Joonghyuk-ah?” He drags his thumbs up. “That’s it! How handsome. Our Yoo Joonghyuk’s smile can knock anyone unconscious—”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s had enough of this. He retracts his face, scowling hard.

“You’re a child.”

Kim Dokja laughs. “Oh, come on. You know I wasn’t being serious. Give me back your face.”

Yoo Joonghyuk narrows his eyes suspiciously. What will this man do this time? he wonders. Over and over, Kim Dokja never stops going on and on about how Yoo Joonghyuk’s face is, collectively, their greatest treasure, and yet…

“Don’t you trust me?” Kim Dokja asks.

Cunning, Yoo Joonghyuk thinks, scowling to himself.

“I don’t,” he answers.

Kim Dokja gawks at him. “I’m your boyfriend!”

Yoo Joonghyuk raises one eyebrow as if to say, So?

Judging from how Kim Dokja’s expression only worsens with exasperation, he sees it’s conveyed well.

Huffing, Kim Dokja nudges Yoo Joonghyuk with a foot. Yoo Joonghyuk gives him a stern yet curious look in return.

“I promise,” the bastard of a boyfriend enunciates very slowly, “not to abuse your face for the rest of the day. From here on out.”

A beat of silence.

Kim Dokja looks like he can’t believe it. “That’s not enough?”

Yoo Joonghyuk keeps silent.

“Fine! Okay!” Through gritted teeth and a weak, weak glare, Kim Dokja begrudgingly adds, “If I do, I’ll accept any punishment the other party, the unfair Yoo Joonghyuk, may give.”

That’s the spirit. Yoo Joonghyuk comes back to bed within seconds, arms sliding around Kim Dokja as he sighs before planting kisses all over the places he played with earlier on.

“See,” Kim Dokja grouches, “This was all I was going to do, and you wouldn’t believe me. Had me signing my rights away to you verbally.”

“Are you afraid?” Yoo Joonghyuk murmurs, then presses lips to lips for a long, long moment. They breathe in, out, after. Kim Dokja’s sleep-addled brain is still trying to catch up to the morning rays of the sun; his eyes are still glossed over from sleep.

Yoo Joonghyuk cannot do this.

He inhales, presses their foreheads together, and places his hands on Kim Dokja’s jaw.

“Contingency plans. You keep on telling me to make those.”

“Don’t use my own teachings against me, Yoo Joonghyuk,” Kim Dokja says, with spite. “I’m never teaching you anything ever again. Say goodbye to all the nagging. Say goodbye to all my witty remarks. They’re too dangerous near you.”

“Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk feels his own laugh fall in the space between them. “I’m no thief.”

“You’re not,” Kim Dokja agrees before flopping to the side and bringing Yoo Joonghyuk down with him. They’re eye to eye now, bedhead pressed flat against pillows. “But you’re a quick learner. You can do almost anything. One day, I’m going to wake up to you having a sense of humor and get a heart attack on the spot.”

“I don’t want your dramatics,” Yoo Joonghyuk deadpans. Kim Dokja’s eyes narrow in on him—not to showcase some kind of groundbreaking disbelief but rather to say—

“Then what do you want?” he prods.

Pause.

That’s the big question, isn’t it? The key. The wonder. The topic that he’s been constantly ruminating over in his head for months. Truthfully, he wants a lot of things. World peace, if possible. High scores. A few video games he’s been eyeing. A quick visit home. Time.

Yoo Joonghyuk rarely ever looks away from Kim Dokja. He blinks, slowly. Thinks a thousand things. Feels something clinging to the bones of his rib cage that feels a little sticky and warm, kind of like how Kim Dokja’s smile always manages to leave him at a loss for words sometimes also.

Right now, what Yoo Joonghyuk wants is another kiss.

A small groan interrupts his thoughts. “Nevermind.” Kim Dokja shoves Yoo Joonghyuk’s face away. His face is embarrassingly red, Yoo Joonghyuk observes, fascinated. “Cheesy bastard.”

Yoo Joonghyuk grabs Kim Dokja’s hand and says, “I didn’t say anything.”

“I could see it.” Kim Dokja fake gags, which Yoo Joonghyuk takes no offense to because honestly, he shares the sentiment. “God, now I understand what Han Sooyoung always says.”

“Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk says. He tugs Kim Dokja forward and notices all the small things once again, always—how Kim Dokja’s lashes tremble. How his lips do, too—

“Joonghyuk-ah.”

Ah. He’s doing it again, isn’t he? Always with the lingering.

Kim Dokja looks away and wrestles his hand away from Yoo Joonghyuk’s grip. He pushes Yoo Joonghyuk away just a little, face flushed like that damn vegetable he claims to hate with a passion yet never realizes is in eighty percent of meals Yoo Joonghyuk cooks for him. “It’s about time for you to go, isn’t it? You have classes.”

Oh, so now it’s important that he has classes.

Yoo Joonghyuk glares at Kim Dokja, betrayed.

“It’s seven,” he says.

“And you have a strict schedule. Breakfast should be now, no?”

“No.” Yoo Joonghyuk surges forward, grumbling, catching Kim Dokja off guard as his arms wrap around him. Yoo Joonghyuk places his chin over his shoulder. Kim Dokja laughs.

“No?”

“I’ll have breakfast,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, “when you do.”

Kim Dokja shakes his head fondly. “How romantic. Will you be cooking for the two of us?”

Of course. Yoo Joonghyuk’s almost offended that Kim Dokja would suggest otherwise.

“Omurice,” he says.

“We had that yesterday,” Kim Dokja points out. “Besides, I’ve been wanting to learn how to cook better. So…”

Oh. Oh, no. Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t like where this conversation is heading.

“Surrender the kitchen to me again today, won’t you, Joonghyuk-ah?”

He winces hard.

“Hey,” Kim Dokja chastises. “We’re literally glued together right now. I felt that. Are you allergic to the idea of me in the kitchen?”

It’s been a couple of weeks since Kim Dokja’s newfound obsession with learning how to cook. For obvious and good reasons, Yoo Joonghyuk was skeptical at first. But he trusts Kim Dokja with eggs and a spoonful of vegetable oil on a good day, a knife and some garlic on miraculous days. Besides, it isn’t like Kim Dokja is completely hopeless when it comes to cooking; he’s lived by himself for a majority of his life, after all. Sure, he learns at a slow pace and somehow messes up recipes Yoo Joonghyuk knows are easy, but he’s not too bad.

There’s a point of redemption, is the moral of the story here.

Kim Dokja sighs. “You can hover around, supervise just in case. How does that sound?”

Yoo Joonghyuk weighs the pros and the cons. Cons: high risk of a fire starting, Kim Dokja accidentally cutting his finger, a kitchen utensil or two permanently disfigured. Pros: boosting Kim Dokja’s survival and self-sustaining skills. Sharing kitchen duties in the future. Cooking together. Not having a heart attack every time he sees Kim Dokja near the stove. Kim Dokja possibly in an apron saying, Kiss the Cook.

Do they have an apron like that? They should. Just in case.

Yoo Joonghyuk locks eyes with Kim Dokja and—there they are.

As expected, Kim Dokja has turned his pleading eyes on him. Puppies and cats, or whatever they say. Yoo Joonghyuk can’t believe it works on him, but it works nonetheless; his stubbornness completely plummets. He huffs.

“Fine.”

When Kim Dokja grins at him and scoots closer to kiss him on the nose, Yoo Joonghyuk thinks he wouldn’t mind eating a lifetime’s worth of burnt omelets.

+

Semester breaks are fun until they’re not.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s definition of fun is silence and minimal contact with anyone who isn’t his lover or baby sister. Unfortunately, the average person doesn’t share this sentiment. Most unfortunately, the group of friends he’s been pulled into in the middle of his degree had unanimously decided to spend this break together.

As a group. A group trip. To the beach.

(And some other places Yoo Joonghyuk hasn’t reviewed because he simply does not have enough time to think about it. Besides, he trusts these people to a certain extent. A significant extent, actually. He has confidence and faith in their abilities to plan a good itinerary.)

Anyway.

The entire group’s squished into Jung Heewon’s car. General consensus dictates high chances of six people fitting a three-section car easily, but general consensus fails to consider the fact that two out of six of these people could count as four. And so here they were, sweaty arms pressed against each other, voices yelling over voices yelling over Han Sooyoung’s horrid playlist.

Yoo Joonghyuk blinks tiredly. He hasn’t managed to sleep. He’s just managed to bust some kind of underground crime ring, and the fledgling superheroes that have only recently discovered that superhero work isn’t just cheers and one-liners are still struggling.

They’re getting by, sure. And learning fast. So Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t have to lose his head worrying over the safety of Seoul. But the days leading up to this—all the preparation, pep talks, interventions… There may come a day where his greatest threat is not acid or laser beams or robot arms but overworking instead. And he’s a superhuman, goddamnit. His endurance is insane. Pushing himself beyond superhuman capabilities should be impossible.

“Michael Jackson is the perfect road trip song, fuck you. Do you even hear yourself?”

A dramatic swerve around the corner.

“Well, this isn’t a road trip.” Jung Heewon cusses loudly when a car doesn’t use their blinkers. The aircon blasts cold air directly into Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. “And your music taste’s the worst from everyone here! Fuck you!”

“Now, now, Heewon-ssi, Sooyoung-ssi…” Lee Hyunsung shifts around subconsciously, triggering this ripple effect from him to Kim Dokja and then finally Yoo Joonghyuk. The car jumps from a pebble. “I like Michael Jackson, too.”

Kim Dokja nods thoughtfully. “I’ve never met someone who didn’t like him. Isn’t it just because you kind of just—” he cracks his neck, “hate Sooyoung with a passion?”

Jung Heewon pulls the gear lever. “I’m sacrificing my car for this trip, and everyone takes Han Sooyoung’s side. I can’t believe this.” She taps her fingers against the steering wheel, considering Kim Dokja’s words. “But that last part’s kind of right. You’re probably right.”

Han Sooyoung revs up her own engine of insults, “Hey—”

Yoo Joonghyuk squeezes his eyes painfully shut, then covers one ear with a hand and the other against the window.

Someone grabs his hand.

There’s so much sweat. There’s too much familiarity. The aircon isn’t good enough to combat the sweltering heat of August, so everything’s irreparably gross.

Yoo Joonghyuk does not shake off the hand even then. There’s only one person who’s as in tune with him as he is with himself, after all.

“For the last time, who cares if Annie’s okay? Like, I don’t actually mind MJ’s songs, but this one’s overplayed. At least as of now. As in, in this situation. In my car.”

“Oh, suck it up. I won Monopoly fair and square earlier, and winner takes all.”

“Ugh—”

“Sooyoung-ah, I’m always on your side, but Heewon-ssi does have a point…”

Han Sooyoung throws a look of utter betrayal behind her. Her own girlfriend, damnit.

“Ha!” Jung Heewon exclaims. A celebration.

“I’m sorry, but this time I’m inclined to agree, too, Sooyoung-ssi…”

“Hyunsung, too?!”

“I mean! It’s been on loop for how long now? We’ve played it at least six times already!”

“And I know this is one of your all-time-favorites, but I also know that you have several others that you rank higher than this specific song, Sooyoung-ah. You moonwalk to MJ in your sleep sometimes, you know?”

“Wait, seriously? Oh my god, that’s hilarious.”

“You,” Han Sooyoung gives Jung Heewon a scalding look. “Shut up. And for the record, I don’t. I never have. I only moonwalk awake. Are you crazy? You’re all just out to get me. Even my own girlfriend’s out to get me—”

Yoo Sangah sighs. “Just yesterday, she was mumbling the lyrics to Billie Jean in her sleep. It scared me awake.”

“Ha! Ha, ha!” If Jung Heewon wasn’t currently driving, she’d be pointing at Han Sooyoung and laughing.

“My own girlfriend!” Han Sooyoung repeats, wailing. And fine, Yoo Joonghyuk will admit it—he finds this whole ordeal amusing as well.

“Why don’t we switch songs to Billie Jean then, Sooyoung-ssi? It must be a high favorite if you’re singing it in your sleep—”

A string of expletives leap out of Han Sooyoung’s mouth. “I don’t moonwalk or sing in my sleep, Christ—”

Yoo Joonghyuk feels the veins against his fingers, feels Kim Dokja’s heartbeat and simultaneously hears it, how it melds with the voices that have become white noise, alongside the other heartbeats of so many people he holds close to his heart.

Kim Dokja nudges Yoo Joonghyuk. Yoo Joonghyuk opens his eyes and glances over at him. The corners of his lips are drawn in that small smile of his reserved for brief, wordless moments. Then Yoo Joonghyuk squeezes Kim Dokja’s hand because—because.

Kim Dokja says, only to him, “Noisy bunch, aren’t they?”

Yoo Joonghyuk scoffs, “Your friends.”

Kim Dokja’s nose scrunches. “Oh, what? Am I keeping them in the divorce? Against my own consent?”

“Mm.”

“Damnit,” Kim Dokja says. “This is why people should read the terms and conditions before accepting anything. Can I get a refund somehow? Is there no refund clause?”

“None.”

Kim Dokja huffs out something close to a laugh. “A Grade-A conversationalist, aren’t you?" Yoo Joonghyuk looks at him curiously until Kim Dokja grins, motions to his shoulder with a tilt of his head, and says, “Lean your head against me. So you can look out the window to, you know, maximize your experience.”

Yoo Joonghyuk says, “Okay,” and does as told.

Then Kim Dokja points at something beyond their little bubble—shrubbery, is it? The sky, perhaps? Yoo Joonghyuk isn’t quite sure. His thumb runs along knuckles. Their intertwined hands are on his lap.

“I always used to pass this road to get to one of my favorite restaurants,” Kim Dokja’s saying. “We should go sometime.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s neck hurts; he has to sink uncomfortably down his seat to rest his head against Kim Dokja’s shoulder like this.

“Okay,” he says.

“Ooh. I remember this path, too—ah! I recognise that alleyway, that corner… I never realized there was a beach in this direction.”

“Hm.”

Beside him, Kim Dokja rambles on in a quiet voice. Yoo Joonghyuk tries his best to focus on what he's saying even if somewhere along the way, his words become something of a lullaby.

In the background, their friends haven’t stopped their passionate argument about Han Sooyoung’s Michael Jackson-specific playlist and her innate need to irritate Jung Heewon and vice versa. At any given moment, there’s someone yelling—no, two people, at minimum, are.

It’s noisy, but it’s a kind of noisiness he’s discovered he doesn’t mind all that much.

Staring out the window, feeling every rock in the road as they drive further away from Seoul, Yoo Joonghyuk blinks slowly.

The world’s so easily passing by.

+

It’s a backdrop of nothingness. White and white, and nothing else.

Miles across from where he’s standing is Namgung Minyoung. She’s so far away that Yoo Joonghyuk can hardly make out her features. Perhaps that’s a kind of mercy his mind’s offering him, to allow him this belief of imperceptibility due to perspective rather than the fact of a fading memory.

There’s a long silence. All they do is stand and stare at each other. Briefly, Yoo Joonghyuk wonders if this was a habit he had picked up from Namgung Minyoung long before he could make sense of the world.

“Tell me about him,” Namgung Minyoung eventually says.

Yoo Joonghyuk blinks. “Who?”

“Don’t get smart with me, brat. You know full well who I meant.” After an unresponsive beat, Namgung Minyoung scratches her head and sighs. “Dokja, was it? Tell me about him.”

Again, Yoo Joonghyuk blinks. “He’s a man.”

“All right,” Namgung Minyoung smiles, “What else?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, before finally stopping to ponder. “He’s…”

He shuts up, because he has to think on it for a while.

It was annoyance at first sight from the moment they met, Yoo Joonghyuk remembers. His overarching feelings about that man may have changed over the course of months, but that frustration has never wilted. Kim Dokja has this annoying grin he flashes when he’s up to no good, where his smile's a little crooked at its ends, a glint in his eyes as the cogs in his brain go into overdrive. You can expect a small kind of prank right after, or a snarky comment that'll have you wanting to break a table or two in half. Sometimes, Yoo Joonghyuk wonders with utmost fascination how someone subconsciously attracts trouble and yet also acts on impulses that will get at least one person around him irritated.

But that frustration doesn't end here, no. Kim Dokja is an enigma, you see. He may be annoyingly teasing one second, then cryptic in the next. His words and actions—how he carries himself, sometimes—are tinged with this great sorrow, and it’s at times like this that Yoo Joonghyuk feels a frustration so harrowing that it gets them into fights.

"You've stuck around all this time, though," Namgung Minyoung says, as if reading his mind. Yoo Joonghyuk supposes that's possible—he was bitten by a radioactive spider; who's he to say what is and isn't possible?

"I've never thought to leave," he confesses, sincere.

This morning, Kim Dokja had waken up long before Yoo Joonghyuk. A rare occurence.

Kim Dokja brushed Yoo Joonghyuk's fringe to the side. He was humming something. He was in a good mood. The blinds barely let any of the morning light in, but Yoo Joonghyuk could see him a little better when he tilted his head, shadows of black lashes falling softly over his cheeks. Kim Dokja's fingers were cold, so he took them in his own.

He smiled. Yoo Joonghyuk dragged his eyes away and looked down at his increasingly heated skin.

“Look at your face," she says, clicking her tongue playfully and shaking her head. "He's got you completely wrapped around his finger. How beautiful is this man for you to be completely starstruck the way that you are?"

“No,” Yoo Joonghyuk insists. “Not beautiful. Something more.”

He gives him his hands whenever asked to. He gives him his pulse even when he doesn’t understand the reasoning behind the request. He likes to hog the blanket whenever they sleep together. He is so, so excruciatingly warm even then, too. Even with his ice-cold hands. 

He’s come close to burning their kitchen down for more times than Yoo Joonghyuk can count. Kim Dokja isn’t beautiful. Beautiful doesn’t come close to it. Let this be known.

Yoo Joonghyuk turns away, clenching his fists. His breaths are wisps. They're careful, like anything louder would be earth-shattering. Would destroy this plane in an instant. He can't have that now, but he's—ready. For the most part.

“Teacher,” his voice wobbles. “I’d like to stop dreaming about you.”

Namgung Minyoung’s smile is still there, knowing as always.

“I take it that you understand now, then?”

In the back of his mind, Yoo Joonghyuk can still see it all: collapsed skyscrapers, piles of rubble, the sting of wounds upon wounds. Gashes, where skin should be. Slowing heartbeats. Him, young and confused.

Carefully, Yoo Joonghyuk nods.

Namgung Minyoung’s shoulders slump in relief. The knots have eased. And she sounds the happiest Yoo Joonghyuk has heard in his dreams when she says, “That’s it, then! My, how you've grown up, my boy!”

“Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk accepts. And then she’s fading, starting with the tips of her fingers, her legs. The white world’s falling away with her.

“Don’t forget to visit home,” she reminds him. “Don’t forget to tell your sister I love her. Don’t forget to tell her you do as well.”

“I won’t.”

She steps forward once, twice. Under the falling world, her steps ripple out towards him.

“Figure out the murim dumpling recipe. If not, get your boyfriend to experiment with ingredients; he might accidentally land on the correct sequence and ingredients, who knows? You’re too rigid of a person to really think outside of the box, after all.”

“Okay,” Yoo Joonghyuk says.

“And don’t you dare forget to tend to my grave. Visit it every year, or whenever you’re missing me. There’s no shame in that even after everything.”

His throat feels terribly dry, but he still manages to reply, “All right.” And then, “I’ll offer some alcohol the next time I visit.”

“That’s my boy!” Namgung Minyoung grins, slapping his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt at all because this is a dream and nothing permanent happens here, but Yoo Joonghyuk would like to think that if this were real, it wouldn’t hurt regardless, because that’s just how Namgung Minyoung is.

It’s passed this year, but he’ll be celebrating the birthday she gave him in the next, he remembers.

“Don’t forget,” Namgung Minyoung continues with a tone of finality. There’s warmth buzzing all around, and Yoo Joonghyuk feels like a child once more. Maybe that’s how it is, how it’s bound to be between—mother and child, whatever that is. “About me. Got it, brat?”

“Of course.”

The voice of the past comes echoing, then. There’s that bit about great power and responsibility, of course. But there’s also the words he’s recently discovered, hidden between the silences and pauses of that phrase.

Great power, great responsibility and, I believe you can do it, I believe in your capabilities, and—

I’m forever proud of you, no matter what.

The corners of Namgung Minyoung’s grin have begun to fade away.

“Goodbye, Joonghyuk.”

The image of her is blurry, but Yoo Joonghyuk finally allows himself to smile, wide and accepting. And then finally, he nods, one final thing, and everything disappears.

You are loved as much as you love, he learns far too late, but learns nonetheless.

IV.

“I can’t find any crabs,” Lee Hyunsung sullenly announces, crouched near where the waves manage to just barely reach.

“They’ve all retreated,” Han Sooyoung tells him.

“Really?”

‘Yeah,” Han Sooyoung continues on, completely straight-faced, “Back to their own restaurants. To make money.”

Kim Dokja joins in, “With a sponge and squid as their employees?”

“A sponge and an octopus.” Han Sooyoung looks at him as if seriously offended. “How do you not know this?”

Yoo Sangah laughs at them.

“Don’t bully Hyunsung-ssi, you two,” Jung Heewon says.

“Well,” Yoo Sangah turns to the side, gazing at the horizon line briefly before swiveling her head back, “In… someone-who’s-not-Hyunsung-ssi’s defense, he has been searching for crabs and shells the entire morning. The sun’s almost set.”

“No, no,” Han Sooyoung shakes her head rigorously, “That’s not the problem; I get that. In fact, I support it. I love childhood whimsy manifesting in adulthood. My problem is with the fact that I’ve seen at least seven crabs near Hyunsung, all to which he ignored.”

“Lee Hyunsung isn’t a perceptive person,” Yoo Joonghyuk observes.

“Joonghyuk-ssi…” Lee Hyunsung notes, sadly, “I don’t know if you’re trying to defend me or the opposite.”

“It’s an observation,” Yoo Joonghyuk says simply.

“On the bright side,” Yoo Sangah starts, crouching down also. She cups a handful of sand and widens the gaps between her fingers just a bit, and then watches as a majority of the sand falls away. A gasp comes out of Lee Hyunsung. “We have a group of people here, upping the chances of finding these little guys.”

“Sangah-ssi, you’re too lucky.”

Han Sooyoung nods vigorously. “Right?”

“It might be—in the technique, or something,” Jung Heewon says. She drops and squints at a suspicious clump, then slaps her fingers over it. “Like this!”

She closes her fists around nothing, brings it up in front of her face, then opens to reveal—well, nothing.

Yoo Sangah passes on the crab she caught to a still-wonderstruck Lee Hyunsung. “Maybe today’s just not your day, Heewon-ssi.”

“Whatever,” Jung Heewon sighs, brushing off the sand on her hands. “All this talk about crabs and secret formulas is making me hungry. Is no one else craving some food?”

“There’s no restaurant or cafe nearby,” Kim Dokja says, scrolling through google maps on his phone. “We’ll have to go back to the hotel.”

Han Sooyoung groans. “It’s so far away, though. And we walked here.”

“We can get a taxi,” Lee Hyunsung suggests as he carefully places the crab back down.

“...No, it’s fine.” Sometimes, Han Sooyoung is perturbed by kindness. This is one such time.

Jung Heewon snickers. “She’s just complaining for the sake of complaining, Hyunsung-ssi.”

“Hey!” Han Sooyoung exclaims.

Yoo Sangah raises a hand as if to say something, but then hesitates, and then after a second, retracts it. Staring at her, Han Sooyoung is in utter disbelief.

“You’re not even going to try to defend me on that?”

Yoo Sangah stands up with a laugh and strategically placates Han Sooyoung with a kiss.

Kim Dokja laughs along. The way Han Sooyoung immediately folds is something he’ll hang over her head for a decade minimum.

Ah. How disgusting. Where’s his own boyfriend?

Kim Dokja turns away from the group and spots Yoo Joonghyuk a few steps away. His ankles are submerged in the water.

“Hey,” he nudges him when he’s gotten close, closely observing his face. “What’re you thinking about?”

Yoo Joonghyuk spares a brief glance at him. Kim Dokja has an inkling that he wasn’t really here before that nudge.

“I was thinking about my mentor,” he says.

“You’ve told me about her,” Kim Dokja hums, then lets silence take over as he leans against Yoo Joonghyuk for a few minutes. The wind is cold; it’s nice. “Are you hungry? Everyone’s going back to the hotel because they are.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not, and I’ll go back to the hotel eventually, but I’m staying if you’re staying for some more thinking. Or anything, really.” He leans down and dips the tip of his hand into the water. The wave rushes out, then back in. “It’s nice here, the wind, the ocean. The sun’s setting; it’s a beautiful view. So I could stay here until the end of time, really.”

“Hm.” Yoo Joonghyuk ponders something, then grabs Kim Dokja’s hand. “I don’t want to leave yet.”

Kim Dokja smiles. “I had the feeling that you didn’t.”

In the distance, Jung Heewon yells, “Hey, lovebirds!” Kim Dokja turns around and spots her waving at the two of them. She’s the closest to them, in terms of distance. Behind her, Lee Hyunsung is worriedly looking back and forth between her and Han Sooyoung and Yoo Sangah, who are both closer to the asphalt road than the water. “You coming with?”

Kim Dokja shakes his head and yells back, “We’re staying for a while—not for long, though!”

And he can’t quite make out the words, but Han Sooyoung’s already ushering Jung Heewon to hurry up. From his very limited lipreading skills, he understands the words, you were the one who brought up being hungry and leave those two and their PDA be, seriously—

Big words coming from someone who was eating faces with their girlfriend just a moment ago.

Jung Heewon rolls her eyes and waves one last time to Kim Dokja. Kim Dokja waves back, and he watches as she scurries away to the rest of the group.

“And—they’re gone,” Kim Dokja says, turning back to Yoo Joonghyuk. “Won’t miss them that much, will you?”

“We’ll see them again soon enough,” Yoo Joonghyuk says.

“Some peace and quiet is nice. I get it.”

“You’re still here,” Yoo Joonghyuk says plainly. “I don’t have peace and quiet.”

Kim Dokja swings their hands together, humming. “Sounds awful. Do you want me to go away?”

Instead of an answer, Yoo Joonghyuk merely squeezes his hand.

“You’re awful, Joonghyuk-ah,” Kim Dokja laughs, leaning against his bicep. Yoo Joonghyuk winces. “I’m the love of your life, aren’t I? Be a little less mean to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, sincerely. If Kim Dokja squints, angles himself just right, he swears he can see a pair of droopy puppy ears on top of his head. “I didn’t mean to. Never go.”

Kim Dokja feels a flood of warmth in his chest.

“‘Never go’?” he repeats, grinning, evidently up to no good now. “Are you sure? You cherish silence above all else, don’t you? I’m afraid I’ll only stand in your way in that regard.”

“It’s fine,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, completely serious. “Exceptions can be made.”

“But I’m not that easy to deal with—right?” Kim Dokja prods some more. “It’s not just my mouth; you’ll have to deal with the occasional—”

“Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, softer, finally turning to look at him.

Oh, no.

Kim Dokja glances away, suddenly embarrassed, suddenly feeling as if he’s bared a part of his soul. Swallowing hard, he lets go of Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand. His mind scrambles, looking for a way to detract, distract.

“Like—” He takes a big step away and pivots on his heels, spraying Yoo Joonghyuk with saltwater.

“Kim Dokja,” comes the warning undercut of Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice.

“—this! I do stuff like this. Are you sure you’re prepared to—” He stops in his tracks; that’s a nasty glare his boyfriend’s aiming at him with. He backs up nervously. “I didn’t do that much, don’t be dramatic. I don’t like that look. What does that look mean, Yoo Joonghyuk? Yoo Joong—hyuk!”

He yelps when a handful of cold water is flung towards him. The tides push him closer towards a vengeful Yoo Joonghyuk, whose lips have crooked up just slightly. He runs towards dry land.

“Come here,” Yoo Joonghyuk demands, chasing after him.

“I have common sense; that’s the one thing I won’t do!”

“You promised me you’d accept any form of punishment I gave you. Have you forgotten?”

“That agreement expired days ago,” Kim Dokja says, flinging some of his own retribution towards Yoo Joonghyuk. “And I didn’t play with your face that day as promised, anyway!”

Their feet leave the water. Yoo Joonghyuk feels the foam dissipating one by one as he chases Kim Dokja along the shoreline.

“Kim Dokja!”

“Stop chasing me, you handsome bastard!” Kim Dokja’s laughing, panting. “We can’t even splash any more water towards each other like this; the water levels are too low here—”

Again, a yelp escapes his mouth when Yoo Joonghyuk manages to finally grab his wrist and stop him. Too easily, Kim Dokja loses his balance and falls; he takes Yoo Joonghyuk with him, and so they tumble down, cheeks flushed and laughs melted together against the dusk.

“Dokja.” Yoo Joonghyuk knows he’s probably wearing an openly smitten smile right now, but he finds he could care less in this moment.

“I get it, I get it. I give.” Kim Dokja raises his arms, trapped under Yoo Joonghyuk. He winds his limbs around his neck, sandy nails brushing the small hairs right there. “Have mercy on me, won’t you?”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s pupils shake frantically.

Even now, Kim Dokja hasn’t recovered from his most recent laughing fit. Yoo Joonghyuk is just waiting, waiting, and waiting for the noise to peter out to something smaller, calmer.

Eventually, it does.

And all of a sudden, Yoo Joonghyuk’s throat goes completely dry.

The sea is the calmest it’ll ever be—the waves crash against rocks, and this will happen again and again, for days and perhaps centuries. The water will mould the land. Will carve, so very slowly, the scene of sunset. This tranquil silence has been something Yoo Joonghyuk has been searching for to no avail, for months. This opportunity, with Kim Dokja here with him, unable to escape or have his attention curved.

It’s the perfect time to reveal one of his deepest, darkest secrets. Something about secret identities and superhuman abilities.

All Yoo Joonghyuk needs to do is say it.

It’s the least that Kim Dokja deserves.

His hands ball up into fists. “Kim Dokja.”

Yoo Joonghyuk can’t help but take note of his lashes, and his own wonder. He finds himself in the reflection of Kim Dokja’s irises, planted against the dusk coloured sky.

“I...” am Spiderman, he should say. 3 measly words, not hard at all to utter, yet his mouth moves uncertainly, in jagged shapes and directions. “I...!”

The sound of waves returning to the ocean, birds squawking, flying overhead. Kim Dokja’s lips, pulled in curiosity and wonder. The slightest flush of pink on the apples of his cheeks. His skin, gold and glowing. It must be the sunset’s doing, Yoo Joonghyuk curses. And he cannot stop to take a breath. Cannot stop his staring.

Kim Dokja is smiling. There’s sand in his hair. Small flecks of stardust. Does he know, too? Does he know how he looks right now, how he makes him feel?

Yoo Joonghyuk's strength falters, just for a moment. His arms almost give out, because something in his chest burns. Burns to leap out of him; burns to escape. And so—

“I love you,” he says, overcome. “Truly.”

Here is his big secret. Here is what he wants above all else. Here is his non-secret.

Kim Dokja’s eyes widen in response, a hush descending over them.

And then, he laughs.

“Of course,” his voice is soft like seafoam and Yoo Joonghyuk presses himself closer, because this is a man who cannot disappear—never, not on his watch.

Kim Dokja places Yoo Joonghyuk’s face between his palms, and it’s an undoing thing, how his affection seems to just so naturally seep through and into the sand and the shells underneath them, the squawks of the seagulls overhead. Yoo Joonghyuk can smell the sea. Can feel his skin burn, burn, burn when Kim Dokja’s thumb swipes over his chin. Then Kim Dokja brings his face closer, always, always smiling, upturned lips and bashful lines.

Then uncontained, as if he can no longer keep such a secret also, he says, privy to just the two of them and the secret-soaked sky, “You idiot, of course I know that.”

Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t keep track of who leans in first, after.

Chapter Text

“—And you never call me even though we have family plans.”

A deep, heavy sigh. [Ma—]

“No. Listen to me, Dokja.” Lee Sookyung can hear her son’s disinterest over the phone. Her eyes move up towards the new recruits her department recently transferred over from some oversaturated police station miles away from Seoul. A glare from her, and they hastily look away. She exits the police station. “Your mother is more than happy to come over with more of her homemade kimchi.”

[Really?]

“Yes.”

[Then why have you just been nagging me for everything under the sun for the past—]

“Hush, child.” Lee Sookyung clicks her tongue. The plastic bag in her hands rustles against her forearm. “What I don’t understand is why you’re still with that…” her face scrunches at the mere thought of him, “displeasing flatmate of yours.”

[Please. He’s not nearly as bad as you paint him out to be.]

“And yet—”

[He makes me happy.] And okay, Lee Sookyung will give him that. Kind of. Half a point should suffice. [He’s good at cooking, he makes sure I rest well even if he doesn’t, he makes me feel loved. All right? Besides, he’s—] A heavy, long pause. [Most importantly,] her son adds in a quieter voice, [he’s really, really handsome.]

Lee Sookyung scoffs, though with a hint of amusement. Having a child is an interesting yet humbling experience. “Is a pretty face all it takes? I don’t recall raising you to be so shallow, Dokja.”

[Well, I wouldn’t attribute my great taste in men to you either, Ma.]

Ah. Is that so? “Remember, you’re never too old to get grounded.”

Her son grumbles something unintelligible on the other side. [His face isn’t his selling point, all right? But I know that he’s at least objectively attractive, so you can’t say I’m wrong or being subjective on that point.]

“Fine,” Lee Sookyung reluctantly agrees, trudging up an annoying slope of concrete. “But he practically doesn’t make anything in a year—scratch that, he won’t. Why couldn’t you have fallen in love with a doctor? Or at least someone studying medicine?”

Her son groans. [Ma.]

Oh, he doesn’t like that? That’s fine. Lee Sookyung begins reciting a pre-made list: “A lawyer, then. A dentist? Firemen? Nurses? Or someone in the force. Maybe someone under me, like—” She scrolls through a list of faces in her mind. Eighty percent of her subordinates are too old. The youthful rest are a bit on the ugly side, but who’s she to judge? Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. “Actually, a new batch of recruits recently got assigned to me. I’m training this kid, Lee Hyukhae. 182 centimetres, a good kid, single, your age. I could set up a blind date with him for you and you won’t have to worry about anything about his work-life balance because as soon as his training period is over he’ll be under someone else—”

[Ma!] Kim Dokja interrupts her loudly. Lee Sookyung can hear him plant his head against his hands and inhale deeply. [Christ.]

“You’re not religious, Dokja.”

[Yes,] he hisses. [That’s how ridiculous you’re being. Just tell me your ETA so I can hang up and go back to—]

“Are you going to continue sucking faces with your boyfriend?” Lee Sookyung can’t help but sneer. “Leave the door to your room open, got it?” At the beat of silence that follows, she smacks her lips and adds, “I might not be there but it’ll act as your reminder: self-preservation, humility—”

Her son makes a series of flustered, garbled noises from the other side of the phone.

[Your ETA,] he repeats, sounding defeated. [And he’s not even home right now.]

“Keep a better eye on that dog of yours, son.”

[ETA, Ma.]

“No,” she says. “You’ll hang up immediately after.”

[That’s the point.]

“How filial,” she scoffs, rounding a corner. “Keep talking back to me and I’ll end up giving this whole bag of kimchi to our Namwoon-ie instead.”

[You don’t even like him!]

“A horrible accusation. I find him adorable. He reminds me of you when you were in your teen years.”

[No—Wha—Ma—]

She sighs, reminiscing. “You used to be so rebellious, I’m glad you grew out of it. But you’d been so cute, everyday was so hilarious, never dull. I remember how you’d tell me to leave you alone and tell me how you have no one and that nobody ‘within this plane of existence’ would ever be able to understand you, then go on to let Yoo Sangah bake some cookies for the two of us and paint your nails while she blasts girl group songs through our speakers.”

[Please…]

“Embarrassed yet?”

[Immensely.]

Lee Sookyung grins to herself as she slips into an alleyway, taking this shortcut near her son’s apartment she’s pretty sure only she knows of. There’s the drip, drip, drip from a nearby drainpipe. She skirts a puddle as her mind wanders from corner to corner, but there’s nothing to really see anyway. Just weary bricks and wall paint. But then she spots the end of the worst crime a relatively innocent adolescent could make: vandalism. She halts.

A bright and ugly shade of red. The watery residue of spray paint running down the wall. Big, obnoxious words reading, CITY’S WEB, CITY’S HERO, SPIDERMAN.

Lee Sookyung personally cannot begin to believe how social media has begun to deteriorate the next generation’s minds. Like, Spiderman? That fraud? He’s a property-destroying idiot with no manners. Seriously, what’s wrong with this generation? So much for a better future.

[Cut it out, Ma. I’m begging.] Lee Sookyung blinks. Her son’s voice rakes her attention back to their conversation, so she moves along. She can hear him pout. Imagine him all those years ago as a kid, positively adorable and sulky. [Are you pleased with yourself?]

Is that even a question? “Of course. But if we go farther down the timeline—maybe, say, to your kindergarten years when you had a crush on your homeroom teacher, Miss K—”

She abruptly stops.

Stops talking, stops thinking, stops in her tracks, gaping.

[Ma?]

Lee Sookyung hangs up on her son, shoves her phone into her pocket, and stares.

Spiderman stares back at her in shock, holding what Lee Sookyung can only assume is his mask. The poor man looks nothing short of exhausted.

The red and blue really bring out his eye bags.

“Chief Lee,” Yoo goddamn Joonghyuk says.

“No,” Lee Sookyung decides. “Don’t. Cut that out. Don’t even start.”

“Yes,” Boyfriend of her Son very quickly agrees. He clears his throat and finally amends his earlier words, “Lee Sookyung-ssi.”

Yoo Joonghyuk drops from the pipes he was hanging from. A puddle splashes water onto Lee Sookyung’s uniform. Yoo Joonghyuk staggers upright. Lee Sookyung only laments—of all people, of course her son’s most cherished person would be the vigilante she’s been chasing down for years.

She eyes him up and down. Somehow it’s more tense than when Kim Dokja first introduced Yoo Joonghyuk to her as his partner: We’re dating, she remembers the man so very confidently saying during his very first meeting with his lover’s mother, with the intention of not breaking up.

In this moment, that confidence was nowhere to be seen.

“Don’t tell your son,” he says… meekly? Not meekly. Lee Sookyung would never in a million years describe this man as meek, but his voice held none of its usual self-assuredness.

“Your lover,” Lee Sookyung’s gaze hardens. Her lips flatten into a thin line. She hopes he can grasp the disbelief, disappointment, and disapproval she’s feeling right now.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t told him.”

He winces. “I…”

“Yoo Joonghyuk,” she warns. Watches how this man, heads taller than her, shrinks before her as she marches forward, anger simmering.

She can’t even begin to find the words.

She twists her neck and blinks furiously. Looks up, pinches her nose, trying her best to keep her fury at bay. In point five seconds she’s deduced exactly three things. One, that her conscience will not allow her to arrest nor reveal anything about Spiderman to anyone after this whole exchange. Two, that her son is probably oblivious to his boyfriend’s vigilante escapades. And three, that her highly likely future son-in-law is a bumbling buffoon.

Lord give her strength.

She’s not even religious, damnit.

“I’ve been meaning to tell him,” Yoo Joonghyuk says.

Lee Sookyung slides her hand over her forehead, feeling delirious. The years must’ve finally caught up to her, because she can’t understand anything. Perhaps the cogs in her head have rusted beyond repair.

“I won’t tell him,” she sighs, “as long as you promise me you will soon.”

Yoo Joonghyuk tenses up, his inability to even glance at her procured from thin air.

She says, “I won’t tell him.”

This is a child in front of her, Lee Sookyung now realises. She thinks of her son. How uncanny. Birds of a feather, she supposes.

She walks forward and pats this hulking man’s head. The wrinkles under her eyes and on her forehead have grown into her skin. Have grown against her heart, too. She’s gotten soft.

Finally Yoo Joonghyuk glances back up at her, and any mother can figure out what he’s trying to say under all those brooding masks and solemn lines.

She huffs and tells him, “You’re welcome.”

Then his phone rings and it’s her son; Yoo Joonghyuk puts him on speaker when Lee Sookyung tells him to. And her son is speaking too fast but Lee Sookyung raised him all by herself, no matter how few the years they were, and so she can decipher enough.

[My mother suddenly hung up on me and she never does that but I don’t know where she is right now. She was heading here to drop off her homemade kimchi you asked about a while ago because we ran out so she must be near. The place she was stationed at is closeby and she was just there to train some trainees and—]

“Dokja,” she says gently. “I met Joonghyuk-ssi coincidentally on my way over. We’re going to the apartment together.”

Her son, the original bumbling buffoon, must be embarrassed to have been caught red-handed with his worry because he says, willing his voice back into one of a non-child, [Oh.]

Lee Sookyung can’t help but laugh a little.

+

Kim Dokja is rid of all spidey-related things.

His conspiracy board and wall are gone. His obsession has dwindled. He doesn’t have some sort of weird, parasocial crush anymore. He doesn’t keep in contact with his old spidey-enthusiast friends. There’s not a lick of spidey-merch in sight, and he hasn’t written down red or blue as his favorite color as a fun fact to anyone who might be interested anymore.

So why has he been running into that damn superhero every day of the week now?!

Well, he supposes it’s not Spiderman’s fault. And really, he’s not blaming the arachnid hero for their recent frequent run-ins. Rather, he’s aware that he’s somehow been at the center of their city crises more often than not recently, to the point that he’s become a mini celebrity across Seoul. Hell—just yesterday, he was making his way to university when a kid, tugging at his mother’s dress, pointed at him and yelled, “Mommy! Mommy, look! It’s The Damsel!”

Took him all of his willpower not to roundhouse kick a kid across the street that morning.

“You’re pretty strong, though,” Sun Wukong comments, a friend Kim Dokja recently acquired from one of his classes about Lady Gaga and her impact on Pop Culture. Which isn’t at all relevant to his degree but has been a constant throughout his semesters because they’re interesting, okay? Sun Wukong swallows down a spoonful of bingsu and continues, “Can’t really blame them, though. Weren’t you taken hostage by that Juggernaut copycat yesterday evening?”

“But ‘The Damsel’? Seriously? I’m a guy!”

“Woah.” Sun Wukong backs up, glancing all around them as if Kim Dokja just said the equivalent of Voldemort in their universe, “That’s pretty sexist to say, man. Guys can be damsels too.”

Kim Dokja’s face twists in disbelief. “That’s not what I—”

“I know. Relax, Dokja. I’m just playing around.” The man who has the misfortune to be born with the name of a monkey—no, the man with the fortune to be born with the name of a well-known folktale hero. Kim Dokja doesn’t know why he’s still friends with this guy. “They couldn’t be more wrong. You could be a hero if you set your mind to it. You’re smart enough, and you’re in no way weak.”

Kim Dokja squints. “Funny.”

“That wasn’t a joke, maknae-ya,” Sun Wukong grins widely, throwing an arm around Kim Dokja’s shoulder. “I forgot how bad you were with compliments. I meant every word I said.”

And then for some reason, Sun Wukong begins to nuzzle their cheeks together. Is he an animal? Kim Dokja tries pushing him away to no avail. Nearly the entire cafe’s looking at them weirdly now.

“Wukong,” Kim Dokja says, annoyed, “What the hell? Get off. You know I don’t like my personal space being this invaded.”

“Shut up and let your big brother shower you in some love.”

“You’re not my big brother!”

“Not by blood.” He coos, pinching Kim Dokja’s cheek, “You have our mother’s face.”

“We don’t have the same—”

A laptop slams loudly onto the table in front of them.

“This seat is not taken.”

Oh, fuck. Kim Dokja feels lightheaded already, suddenly paralyzed with fear.

Not for himself, though.

Yoo Joonghyuk sits down across from them, face murderous as he stares Sun Wukong down. But of course, this bastard of a monkey’s response is only the widening of his grin. Or at least, that’s what Kim Dokja would’ve preferred.

Sun Wukong, because he can’t keep his mouth shut for one second, says, “It’s supposed to be, ‘Is this seat taken?’”

“Ah,” acknowledges Yoo Joonghyuk, and Kim Dokja thinks he can see hellfire rising behind the man, “Is that so?”

Thankfully when Kim Dokja tries prying Sun Wukong’s hands off, he acquiesces more easily this time around. Yoo Joonghyuk relaxes just a smidge, but not enough to guarantee a non-homicidal outcome just yet. And so Kim Dokja stands up and reaches over to press a long, sweet kiss against his lips.

They only part when Sun Wukong coughs into his fist, still grinning maniacally. Kim Dokja knows his face is flickering through darkening shades of red, but Yoo Joonghyuk’s finally calmed, so it’s a win in his book.

“Sun Wukong,” Sun Wukong says as a way to introduce himself, offering a hand out to Yoo Joonghyuk.

Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t break eye contact with him and grabs his hand. Kim Dokja can see Sun Wukong’s fingers turn a little blue.

“Kim Dokja’s boyfriend, Yoo Joonghyuk,” he introduces himself.

Sun Wukong hurriedly retracts his hand, laughing awkwardly. “Charmed.” He looks around then says, “Oh, it looks like I can’t stick around. Got a class in a few minutes. And I wouldn’t want to disrupt a campus date.”

“Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk says childishly, in Kim Dokja’s unbiased opinion.

Not knowing how to respond to that, Sun Wukong gives a nervous nod, then whips around to flee after mouthing, Your lover is terrifying, to Kim Dokja.

When he’s long out of earshot, Kim Dokja practically melts into his seat with relief.

Yoo Joonghyuk is still glaring at the horizon where Sun Wukong left when he says, “I don’t like him.”

Oh, this boyfriend of his…

Kim Dokja shakes his head, patting the now empty seat beside him and watches with a recurring satisfaction when Yoo Joonghyuk obediently gets up to move seats. He kisses his grumpy partner’s frown off. The crease between his furrowed eyebrows, too.

“Joonghyuk-ah,” Kim Dokja says affectionately. “He was joking. Making fun of me. I’m like a younger brother to him.”

Yoo Joonghyuk grumbles, putty in Kim Dokja’s hands, “I don’t like anyone who makes fun of you regardless.”

“But you call me a fool all the time. Isn’t that making fun of me?”

“That’s different. And I don’t do that anymore.”

A beat of silence.

“I try not to do that anymore.”

“Hm.” Kim Dokja grins, hands coming up. His thumbs settle easily against Yoo Joonghyuk’s jaw. “I know, I’ve noticed. Thank you for that.”

His lovely, handsome boyfriend glances away. How bashful.

“What were you two talking about?”

“I was ranting to him about how I’ve become semi-famous around Seoul as ‘The Damsel’,” Kim Dokja’s face screws up at the mere recollection. “It’s true that I’ve been at the center of villain outbursts lately, but I’m not a damsel.”

Yoo Joonghyuk looks back at him with a tinge of confusion.

“You could be a hero if you wanted to.”

“That’s what Wukong said!” Kim Dokja says, exasperated. “It’s not my fault that I’m somehow the nearest person to the villain whenever there’s a prison breach or any other kind of chaos. And 'damsel' just isn’t right—I’ve saved myself countless of times from danger without the help of any hero.”

“Mm.” Kim Dokja feels himself shiver when someone slips their hands under his shirt. He can make out the trace of wonder in Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes when he mumbles, “You’re strong, Dokja.”

Fingers travel up his spine. Yoo Joonghyuk shortens the distance between their faces. His breath tickles Kim Dokja’s chin. Something coils in his stomach when Yoo Joonghyuk slightly lifts him up to move him to his lap.

“Joonghyuk,” Kim Dokja warns.

“Won’t do anything,” Yoo Joonghyuk whispers, and his voice drips with so much honesty that Kim Dokja almost doesn’t doubt him at all. “Just want to be close to you.” And now that Kim Dokja’s really looking at him, he notices the disheveled hair, the exhaustion stark against his now almost sickly looking skin.

All right. He gives.

His skin burns and burns and burns like this, but proximity has always been a star method of Calming Yoo Joonghyuk down. Some days it feels like he gets more energy from stuff like this than actual sleep.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand is sweaty against his own. The creases between fingers meet and it’s comfortable even though it shouldn’t be.

Didn’t like his personal space being invaded, huh.

Kim Dokja stares down at the bulk of curly hair and sighs at himself.

Apparently Yoo Joonghyuk takes that the wrong way. He throws a mini tantrum: he squeezes Kim Dokja in his arms and looks up with a, honestly, pathetic excuse of a glare.

Kim Dokja rolls his eyes and takes his face in his palms. That sigh wasn’t at all directed to him but it looks like he’ll need to give some emotional compensation.

Maybe his mom did have a bit of a point in her earlier spiel on the phone—perhaps he should’ve gone spouse-hunting in the law buildings. Grab an unsuspecting guy in his penultimate and train him to start drafting Plans In Case Of A Sulky Yoo Joonghyuk.

Kim Dokja’s smile strains when he stares for longer at the dark circles littering Yoo Joonghyuk’s face, so he looks away and reaches for the half-finished bingsu Sun Wukong left behind.

+

(They’ll meet again later, much later that night, after the day’s all over. Kim Dokja’s never sure if days are ever considered over for Yoo Joonghyuk.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s window is open. The curtains are blown by the persistent wind. Kim Dokja has lost track of the seasons and looks out at the moon and the stars and everything else he can’t see because of the simple fact of living in a city.

In a few minutes, Yoo Joonghyuk will stumble inside, exhausted and worn like a pair of someone’s favorite but poorly taken care of clothes. Kim Dokja has it memorised now, without even meaning to: he will trip himself near the kitchen because they have that dent in the floor from god-knows-what and try his best to stay quiet. He will open the door and expect it empty or with a sleeping Dokja. He will startle slightly when he realises it’s neither of those options—Kim Dokja has always been waiting.

He makes an effort to, after all. A home’s not a home without anyone waiting for you. He knows that all too well.

The breeze hums in his ear. Kim Dokja’s hand hangs from the edge of windowframe. He peers out into the night and wonders.

Soon, he’ll ask Yoo Joonghyuk where he’s been, why he sneaked out via window, of all things, and what time he has to be up by the latest tomorrow. Yoo Joonghyuk won’t answer well because words have always been something that’s never quite been within reach, but his exhaustion plays a big part here too, so Kim Dokja plants a kiss on his hair and lets him press his ear against his heartbeat. He’ll speak softly about his day and the newest webnovel update he’s been raving about since millennia ago. He’ll wipe off the small strip of blood behind Yoo Joonghyuk’s ear and pretend he didn’t notice.

When Yoo Joonghyuk finally falls asleep, Kim Dokja stays awake for a while longer just to linger. Such a handsome bastard. What did he do in his past life to get such an irritatingly perfect face?

A pause.

Then, a parting of lips.

A sigh or a kiss—it varies a lot. Sometimes it’s both.

The only constant at the near-end of this routine is Kim Dokja trying his best to understand, despite everything, because Yoo Joonghyuk has never let him doubt his love for him. And so he presses their foreheads together and listens to their breaths. Matches his own with Yoo Joonghyuk’s. And finally he thinks, still forehead-to-forehead like this, as if it’ll project the thought into Yoo Joonghyuk’s dreams—

Whenever you’re ready.)

+

The cost of sleep-deprivation is a heavy price to pay, Kim Dokja learns one fine morning.

Actually, it’d be more accurate to say relearn.

“Ack!”

Kim Dokja barely dodges as one of Doc Ong’s mechanical limbs slices through the air above him, close enough to stir his hair. The metal arm zooms past, then crashes down, obliterating a lamppost with terrifying ease. Kim Dokja bolts, stumbling as his feet struggle to keep pace with his adrenaline.

Zigzagging between abandoned cars, he throws frantic glances over his shoulder. His pulse thunders. Feels like it’s gone and amped itself up on a makeshift race track. He’s had his fair share of villain encounters lately, but this one feels different. Doc Ong’s after him.

“Stop running away, you slimy bastard!”

Doc Ong charges forward, and Kim Dokja spots a metal pipe up ahead. The hiss and whirr of Doc Ong’s mechanical limbs tighten, a telltale sign he’s about to pounce.

“Oh, yeah?” Kim Dokja drops down readily, skiding across the concrete. “What’s in it for me?”

The villain’s laughter is sharp. “Ha! It’s a secret—a good one. But you’ll only hear it if you come closer... and if you surrender!”

“Let me think about it,” Kim Dokja scoops up the metal pipe, hurrying to his feet. Before he knows it, claws of metal surround him, reaching and snapping. He swings the pipe, the clang of metal on metal nearly deafening as he fends off each arm.

Much too early on, the pipe’s become bent and unusable. Kim Dokja forces himself to think, think, think of a way out. With a final glance back, he sizes up his aim and hurls the pipe at Doc Ong’s head—direct hit.

“Kim Dokja!” Doc Ong screams, grabbing the pipe and crushing it down like a tin can.

Kim Dokja dives around a tree, ducking as another arm hurtles toward him. The limb catches between branches and leaves, tangled just long enough to give him a sliver of triumph.

“Ha!” he calls back, grinning despite the odds. “Maybe we should save that ‘gift’ talk for later—enjoy my bouquet first and thank me after!”

“You son of a—!”

“No rush, though!” Kim Dokja shouts back, unsure if Doc Ong even heard him with the distance he’s gained.

He sprints around a corner, then another, pushing past his limit as his feet ache with each step. The clanking and relentless machinery echo behind him. Kim Dokja can still hear Doc Ong cursing as if he was right beside him. Screwing his eyes shut, he steels his resolve, opens them, and runs, runs, runs and—

He winces at the sudden stop of movement. At the sudden coldness beneath his knees. He scrambles for air and heart and peace and plants his face against—by now—too-familiar spandex.

“You—you—” he stammers. Breathes deeply in, digging his nails into red-blue covered skin. “You’re late, you useless goddamn hero,” Kim Dokja murmurs.

“I’m sorry.” Spiderman pulls him up, swinging from alleyway to alleyway. Kim Dokja’s not going to back up, not going to look anywhere or let his eyes open. Fear of heights be damned, Spiderman can swing as high as he wants to so long as he reaches a good hiding place. “Got here as fast as I could. Was searching for you first. Doc Ong was—”

“Targeting me,” Kim Dokja finishes for him, holding on tighter. Spiderman stiffens, and Kim Dokja can feel it. “I don’t know why. I lost him earlier in the main street. Damaged him a bit.”

“Yes. You are amazing, Kim Dokja.” Spiderman’s swings slow down. The winds follow.

“I was scared,” Kim Dokja admits, words tumbling out, “Why was he after me specifically? I was just walking and people started screaming and running. I wasn’t panicked, just curious. But then, next thing I knew, my face almost got done in by a metal claw.” A breather. “He knows me by name. Chased after me without a minute’s rest.”

After a while, Spiderman’s arms have moved around him, repositioned themselves to allow a tight hug. Kim Dokja distantly notices this strangely warm sensation. His mind’s muddled, a mess. This position must mean he’s landed some place safe but Dokja—Dokja doesn’t want to let go just yet.

“I kept my wits,” he voice cracks here. “I kept looking for ways out and avoided pulling others into—” he inhales, “whatever that was. Chose all the long-winded paths with annoying corners and multiple entrances and exits.”

The hand on his back is comforting. Spiderman replies with a low hum, never demeaning nor dismissive. “Good.”

With just that one word, Kim Dokja feels a flood of relief. He gulps. “I… did good.”

“Immensely,” Spiderman says as he finally sets Kim Dokja down, carefully letting him regain his own sense of balance, offering himself as a rock while Kim Dokja tries to stop his shaky knees. When he looks up, he can tell that the hero’s gaze on him is true, even with the mask. “You did more than the average civilian can do. You’re intelligent, strong, courageous. You’re—” Spiderman’s breath hitches. Kim Dokja watches him curiously, chewing on his chapped bottom lip, practically crushing Spiderman’s hands in his. And then finally, under his gaze, does the hero finish what he’d swallowed down just moments earlier: “You’re amazing. Truly.”

Kim Dokja’s face warms. “Oh.”

Oh, fuck off, Kim Dokja thinks in exasperation as he hears a fast drumming picking up in his ears.

“Oh, um, I.”

Pulling his hands free, his gaze darts around.

“I,” Kim Dokja squawks out, “I have a boyfriend, okay? Just so you know.”

Spiderman freezes.

“He’s very dear to me,” Kim Dokja continues, and takes a step back.

Apparently that was a stupid choice to make, especially in light of recent events, because he can’t fight back the grimace that shows in his face and the slight limp and loss of balance. He wobbles, unsteady. Spiderman shoots forward to catch him—

“No.” Kim Dokja heaves with a raised hand. “I’m fine. I don’t need more help than necessary. Don’t be too comfortable with getting all up in someone’s personal space unprompted, Mr. Hero.”

—only to be denied. Told to stop and stay right there like a damn dog.

Then Spiderman lets out the softest voice he’s ever heard. “Dokja…”

“Dokja-ssi, please.” Kim Dokja says, “I don’t recall sharing such a close relationship that warrants you to drop formalities.”

“Ah.” Realisation sets on Spiderman’s masked face. Kim Dokja almost lets himself feel bad for him. Alas, this is the one line he needs to draw. Spiderman clears his throat. “You’re right. I’m… sorry. Thank you for the reminder. I’ll be more mindful.” He looks skyward, squints. “Doc Ong is still out there. And he’s getting closer by the second.”

“Oh, good.”

“?”

“Wait, fuck, not good, I meant—” Kim Dokja wants to vanish into thin air. Think of good thoughts. Think of good thoughts! Yoo Joonghyuk, Yoo Joonghyuk, Yoo Joonghyuk… “Please go. I’ll find a safer place if I can and hide until it’s all over.”

“Yes,” Spiderman says before awkwardly shifting around. Then—he hesitates. Spares one last glance back, it seems.

“What?” Kim Dokja asks, tired.

“Stay… safe,” Spiderman says. “Kim Dokja-ssi.”

And with that, Spiderman swings away, disappearing into the skyline.

In one last act of dramatic irony, Kim Dokja drops to the ground, and smothers his own face with his hands.

Chapter Text

“You should pay me, you know,” Kim Dokja shouts over the clink-clank of villains being thrown back and forth around Seoul. “I’m basically your sidekick now. What is this now, the third time already this week? To think we’re barely halfway through and you keep showing up! I’m flattered, really, but I’ve told you countless of times already that I’m spoken for—”

“Shut up,” Spiderman says.

“Just trying to keep the conversation going.” Kim Dokja frowns, but nonetheless helps him subdue a few insignificant villains. A click when the handcuffs connect. He murmurs to himself, “I can’t believe my mother had a stash of these just lying around.” He braves a glance at Spiderman, sees how he’s looking over their surroundings for—nothing, ultimately. “Hey,” Kim Dokja calls. “All the villains were taken down. No one was injured. Wouldn’t do you well to keep on worrying over nothing. All that stress isn’t good for you, you know?”

“I’m not stressed.”

“And the sky’s green. You’re right.”

“Your snark is unappreciated, Kim Dokja-ssi.”

He scoffs playfully. “I’m keeping things entertaining.” He nudges the cuffed villain with his foot. “You guys seriously just fight with this guy without a single shared ounce of entertainment?”

The villain thinks on it. He nods thoughtfully. “Your commentaries made today’s fight more fun. I could feel it. In the air.”

“See, this guy gets it.”

Spiderman narrows his eyes at Kim Dokja—which, granted, Kim Dokja can’t actually tell, but he knows so. He felt it. Cross his heart.

“I don’t see the merit in occupying myself with what my villains think of me,” Spiderman says. Kim Dokja thinks he can pick out a small hint of disbelief somewhere in his tone.

“Pssh,” insignificant villain #537 says. “Forget Spiderman, civilian-ssi. He’s a bore! We all know it. In fact, hey, what do you think about a more fun boss? An adventurous day-to-day? Did you do any sports as a kid? Muay? And don’t get me started on your wit—incredible! Almost keeled over laughing. I became a fan in the middle of battle!” He clears his throat, the width of his grin too wide for it to be truthful. “So what do you say? Partners? Subordinates? Whatever—not a bad idea, right?”

Kim Dokja can’t believe it. Does this guy think he’s stupid?

“Um,” he says at the same time as Spiderman’s fist comes barreling into the side of the villain’s face. The villain flies, his spine cracking against a streetlight. He slides down with an awful grimace.

“Next time,” Spiderman hovers over the villain, voice low and dangerous, “try using that brain before you open your mouth.”

If Kim Dokja didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought that the villain here was Spiderman.

“You’re a scary guy, Spiderman,” Kim Dokja laughs lightly. Maybe it’s because they’ve been interacting so frequently recently—Kim Dokja finds that he doesn’t quite feel frightened or irked by the arachnid hero’s behavior. Rather, it’s amusing.

Spiderman scowls harshly. “I don’t spare generosity for fools. Least of all arrogant ones.”

“Ah, so it wasn’t just my imagination—he really did think I was stupid enough to fall for his trick.”

“An awful judge of character,” Spiderman huffs, accurately binding his webs around multiple villains’ limbs and mouths. He’s not looking at Kim Dokja when he pauses to ask, “Did you get hurt?”

Kim Dokja rolls his eyes. “I’ve been running around half of Seoul with you for the past month and you’re still doubting my S-tier superhero potential? Frankly, I’m wounded.”

“Answer the question, Kim Dokja-ssi.”

All right, Kim Dokja can acquiesce; the worry’s understandable. In the beginning of their unofficial crime-fighting partnership, he’d get severely hurt. That first terrifyingly personal encounter with Doc Ong out of the way, he had quite a bit of instances when he had to come home with a stained button-up even after Spiderman bandaged him up.

But that’s a thing of the past. Far, far into the past in his humble opinion.

Kim Dokja grins and dusts off his arms. “Not a speck of dust on me,” he says. “Careful, I might give you a run for your money one of these days.”

Spiderman says nothing for a few seconds—a wave of amusement, Kim Dokja guesses.

“Arrogant,” he huffs lightly in the end. When Kim Dokja’s ear just barely manages to pick up the incoming noise of police sirens, Spiderman’s already shot out a web attaching to the corner of some flat roof miles away. “Get home safe, Kim Dokja-ssi.”

+

“Dokja.”

Kim Dokja blinks, catching something thrown his way. He looks up at Yoo Joonghyuk, confused.

“Apron,” his lovely boyfriend—with too little words in his lexicon—explains. “Cook with me.”

The sun must’ve risen from the west.

“What?” Yoo Joonghyuk scowls.

Putting on the apron, Kim Dokja says, “I’m not complaining, but what’s with your change of heart recently? You used to have a heart attack just seeing me a meter near the stove.”

Yoo Joonghyuk hands him a knife and taps the cutting board he’s laid out beside him. There’s a gaggle of carrots resting on top. “I’ve been too rigid.”

“I see,” says Kim Dokja, not seeing. “In a way, you’re trying something new. It’s a step into the right direction.” There’s the sound of tap water rushing out. “Cooking together is one of the best ways to bond. Have you heard?”

“Do you feel that we’re inadequately intimate?”

“Who knows?” Kim Dokja says playfully. “I don’t know your favorite color yet. That’s something.”

“That’s because I don’t have one.”

“Everyone has to have one. I’d bet that you’ve just never noticed what you like.”

“Hm.” Yoo Joonghyuk starts boiling a pot of water. Kim Dokja still has no idea what they’re about to make, but it’s okay. The only time when blind faith is acceptable is when you’re helping Yoo Joonghyuk cook.

“I think,” Kim Dokja begins, “your favorite colour is white.”

“Oh?”

“Someone else would probably think it’s black, seeing how that’s the only colour you ever wear, but they don’t account for your,” he thinks about it for a second, “depth.”

“Depth,” comes the echo.

“Depth,” Kim Dokja agrees, grinning, “It’s kind of like how you should expect the unexpected. Maybe, after a life full of living in the dark, you took to the light and saw how ideal it looked. It’s a pretty color, reminds you of freedom, the days before systems came to be and you didn’t have to fight through monster dungeons for survival…”

“Right,” Yoo Joonghyuk says blandly. “And my name is?”

“Jaehwan.”

Yoo Joonghyuk says, “Ridiculous,” but Kim Dokja knows better than to take his words at face value. He peers over his shoulder, watching Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. To the untrained eye, it’s as stoic as ever, sharp, handsome lines smoothed against the cold slant of his eyebrows. Couldn’t be farther from the truth. What Dokja sees is exasperation. Fondness.

“Joonghyuk-ah,” Kim Dokja starts sweetly, “I didn’t get wounded badly today. I’m improving a lot. They’ve stopped calling me ‘The Damsel’, too.”

Yoo Joonghyuk must find it incredibly amusing enough for his full attention, because he halts busying himself for a minute to steal a glance at Kim Dokja.

The carrots have been chopped up. They slide easily into the pot. A bag of homemade kimchi lies near. Kim Dokja takes the initiative to grab some paste from their pantry, a guess of what they’re making. When Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t scoff and look away, Kim Dokja takes it as a victory.

“How are your wounds from last time?”

It’s just like Yoo Joonghyuk to mask his worry with food. They’ve talked about this a couple times, how to express care and adoration and be more open with feelings. Fog rises from their boil of kimchi jjigae. It smells good.

“They’re healing well. I’m okay.” He smiles, watching Yoo Joonghyuk take out some bowls and cutlery. “Just a tad bit hungry.”

“It’s been a while since I dressed your wound. I’ll have to do it again.”

“I’d much prefer you undress me, Yoo Joonghyuk,” Kim Dokja sighs dramatically, “What to do?”

A disgruntled sigh. “How do I survive with you.”

When he’s poured some food into both bowls, Kim Dokja smoothly takes the ladle away from his grip, tugs him away from the stove with practiced ease. Their foreheads touch. Quiet, Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze drops down intently. A gesture. Kim Dokja follows.

Kiss the Cook, reads the embroidery of the apron he’s wearing.

“Ah.” Incredulity bubbles inside him. He feels his face slowly warm. His gaze flickers back to Yoo Joonghyuk. Kim Dokja tries to will his heartbeat away. “You…” It doesn’t work, and so he blinks rapidly to stave off some of the embarrassment he’s feeling. “Did you invite me to cook just for this?”

Stubborn, Yoo Joonghyuk remains silent. He’s cursed to never speak again, he’s saying with his eyes, until he gets a true love’s kiss. Kim Dokja wants to liken him to a frog out of spite, a little humiliated, a little amused, but there isn’t a world in which his consciousness would ever allow him to call someone with a face like this a frog, of all things. So, there’s really no other option.

Kim Dokja closes the gap between their lips. Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes shut. His own do, too. Yoo Joonghyuk tastes like test sips and a bit of their toothpaste. His mouth moves slowly against his; he can feel the warmth of his breath, how it slips out, impossibly, and licks the skin of his chin.

“It’s not like you weren’t going to kiss me,” Yoo Joonghyuk says when they part.

Kim Dokja won’t contest that, but he still feels a bit tricked. “Is the only solution to the dangers of having me in the kitchen a Kiss the Cook apron?”

And then he can feel the smile against him when Yoo Joonghyuk says, “It’s a fair trade.”

+

Kim Dokja dodges right on time when today’s villain of the day tries to sweep him off his feet in the least romantic way possible, then stumbles to the side when the sloppily masked man swings his knife. Spiderman webs the villain’s elbow and tugs him back harshly. The villain yowls, and his knife clatters to the ground.

Kim Dokja wastes no time. He kicks away the fallen knife and hurriedly yanks the hostage away.

“Run!” he shouts.

The poor civilian who got herself into this mess yelps. They break off into a run together.

“Is it—is it okay to just leave—” she tries catching her breath, “him there?”

“He’s a superhero with superhuman abilities and that’s what you’re asking?! If we get in there we’d get pulverised in the background!” Kim Dokja ducks when a metal hull of some appliance flies towards him. He pulls the other civilian down with him. “Are you nuts—is the question that should be asked here! Lady, how’d you even get into that kind of situation?”

“It’s not my fault! That’s my crazy asshole of an ex!”

“You dated a nutjob with overlord dreams? What, the first few ‘I dream to rule the world’s not a big enough red flag for you—”

Before she can answer, she screams. The villain’s hand stops just shy of her face; Spiderman pulls him towards him and kicks him by his side. The villain crashes into a wall. Kim Dokja ushers the lady to a room around the corner and locks the door.

“You dated someone with super strength?!” he hisses.

“I didn’t know, okay!” the lady shouts. “And I thought he was a nice guy!”

They hear glass breaking far from them. Briefly, Kim Dokja laments the state of his university. Maybe he would’ve been grateful for something like this in high school, but he’s paid a kidney and a half for his degree, damnit.

“Forget that,” he mumbles, busying himself immediately with blocking the door with chairs and desks and everything with a substantial weight that he can pick up. The lady catches on quick enough, starts doing the same. “Are you a student here too?”

“Final year,” she says, “Was about to meet with my thesis supervisor but that damn asshole hates seeing me thrive, so—” She chokes up, tears pooling in her eyes. “Fuck. I’m sorry. Give me a sec. It’s just—it’s just been a rough few weeks.”

“Uh.” Kim Dokja is not at all equipped for this. He plans out a sympathy script: I understand, to start it off, perhaps, followed with a, It’s not every day your crazy ex-boyfriend chases you down and tries to stop you from graduating with flying colours.

He grimaces. It sounds a bit mocking if he thinks about it, honestly. Should he just offer his condolences?

“Um—”

The wall caves in. Dust and debris burst in as the villain crashes through the section right beside their barricade. He stumbles upright, covered in plaster.

Kim Dokja blinks. “You could’ve at least tried going through the door,” he says. “Appreciate us a little; we worked hard on piling all these heavy desks together, you know.”

The villain snarls, “I don’t give a—” Mid-sentence, Spiderman swings his way into the room just in time, heel digging into a bruised, masked cheek and sending the man tumbling against a newly cracked floorboard.

“This is why you got dumped, man!” Kim Dokja quips loudly over the scene.

“Stop making conversation with my villains, Kim Dokja-ssi.” Spiderman has the villain pinned down against the floor, elbow lodged underneath his chin.”You’ll put a target on your back.”

That simply won’t do—Kim Dokja derives all his enjoyment from making witty remarks about whatever crime they’re fighting. It’s his standard. MO. Can’t function without doing such a thing.

“It’s part of my charm,” Kim Dokja says. “Are you saying my charms are unpleasant? Awfully harsh of you, Spidey.”

“Do not put words in my mouth. I meant—” Spiderman works his jaw as if to hold something back and find better words for—something. “—that there are many people who wouldn’t appreciate it like I—”

The villain throws a punch after managing to wriggle an arm away. “I don’t give a shit about that guy’s charms—but your flirting is going to make me fucking explode!” He kicks Spiderman off him. Throws another punch under Spiderman’s jaw.

Spiderman grimaces, steadies himself by shooting a web overhead and tumbling backwards. He blocks another blow with his arms crossed together. Swiftly swings over and behind. Kicks the villain’s back and sends him slamming into the wall opposite to them.

“Lady,” Kim Dokja digs around in his pockets, “You know that really famous anthropology professor?”

“Dr Jung?”

“Yes,” he says, urges her to offer up her palms. A key dangles between them. “She has some kind of apocalypse bunker in her office—don’t ask, I don’t know either—but you’ll see her office outside if you keep left thrice. Wooden door. Has her name plate on it. Okay?”

The woman’s face scrunches and she doesn’t quite accept the keys. “How do you know this? How can I trust you?”

“Do I look like a lunatic?”

“You were flirting in the middle of danger—do you think that’s a perfectly sane thing to do?”

“I wasn’t flirting—” A yelp cuts him off. Kim Dokja’s eyes widen. He scrambles to catch a falling set of keys. Snaps his head to their resident superhero because—what the fuck happened? Couldn’t hold him off for too long, it seems.

“Not a single move. I’ll blow her head clean off.” The villain fishes out a gun when Spiderman takes a wary step forward. Spiderman visibly tenses. Shit, Kim Dokja thinks.

“What are you waiting for? Can’t you web his gun away?” Kim Dokja whisper-shouts.

“Doubt it,” Spiderman replies. Reminds him: “Super strength.”

“Was he exposed to a vat of radioactive waste? How do you just get super strength? No offense. Just curious.” Kim Dokja’s eyebrows crease. “But, super strength and a gun? A bit overkill.”

“Whatever gave him his powers must’ve melted his brain too.”

A snicker. “Didn’t know you were capable of cracking jokes, Spidey.”

“Wasn’t a joke,” Spiderman says flatly.

“Hey, um—” says the hostage awkwardly, “You guys are adorable, but I’d like to be saved please.”

“Makes me sick to the stomach.” The villain fakes a gagging noise, then jostles the hostage in his grip. “But that—that’s what we could’ve been if you didn’t fucking dump me—”

“Don’t you dare start! You’re a fucking psycho! I should’ve—” She cuts off when the gun digs into the side of her head.

Kim Dokja realises something.

He fumbles for words. “That wasn’t us flirting. I think you’ve greatly misunderstood something here. We were talking to—” strategise, he shouldn’t say, because he doesn’t resonate with those TV supervillains who spell out the entirety of their plans to the enemy without a single prompting question, “—talk.” Then he adds on with an awkward laugh, “I’m taken, by the way. Rather happily, too.”

The villain rolls his eyes. “Oh, perfect! Should’ve known when you two were all buddy-buddy back in the hallways. So he’s a cheater just like you—”

“I’m not a fucking cheater?!” Kim Dokja snarls, offended. Holy shit. Can these people stop projecting their issues onto other people? Kim Dokja takes deep breaths. Tries to calm himself down. “I’ve drawn my—my goddamn spidey-boundaries already, all right? Fuck. I’m not stupid enough to let go of a goddamn catch of a boyfriend. He’s way out of my league—hell, he has the jawline of a sculpture! And he loves me with all his heart. I’ve never felt so happy in my entire life. I’m not stupid enough to throw that all away. Stop thinking everyone’s relationships have the same issues you do—fuck.”

Silence. He’s out of breath. The villain and hostage exchange a look.

“Dude,” the villain starts plainly, looking between him and Spiderman, whose entire body has turned away from them for some reason, “it’s Spiderman, though.”

“I’d dump anyone in a heartbeat to get a chance with Spiderman,” the woman agrees. Horrible, by the way. Kim Dokja is struck with repulsion. “If he gave me even 1% of the attention he gives you, I’d be claiming myself to be his girlfriend to everyone I know.”

“With all due respect,” Kim Dokja clears his throat awkwardly, “this guy—I know him personally, all right? We’re close friends, so to speak, so it’s not like—”

The villain groans. “Enough of this. Leave me be or I’m pulling the fucking trigger!”

Spiderman finally speaks up, “You got caught trying to raze her entire faculty to the ground. I’m afraid leaving you alone is—”

Kim Dokja laughs nervously, purposefully cutting Spiderman off; if he finishes that sentence, who knows what the villain would do? They need to approach this situation with care. Delicately. He puts his arms up in a gesture of surrender, takes a few steps forward.

“Look, man,” he says, “It’s been real harsh for you, hasn’t it? At least from what I know. And I understand that there’s a lot of stress outside this… relationship that you’re dealing with. The world’s hard, difficult, unfair… but there’s no reason to—”

“No reason my ass! If the world’s unfair then I’ll just have to make it fair!” he says, jostling the gun. Kim Dokja winces.

Spiderman tries again. “Put the gun down and calm down—”

“Not one fucking step, Spiderman. Didn’t you fucking hear me?” The tense line of Spiderman’s shoulders. The threat of death looming over him like a ticking time bomb. Amongst it all, Kim Dokja registers one singular fact: the villain had no qualms with him inching closer.

The villain grumbles, as if to verify Kim Dokja’s theory, “You think I’m brainless enough to allow a superhuman to come closer?”

“Tell me about it,” he sighs with as much frustration as he can muster. He puts his theory into motion: one step, two steps forward. Then another. “He’s supposed to be the people’s hero, but he never listens to anyone. Not even when you’re on ‘the same side’! It’s like everything you say goes in one ear, then out the other. I haven’t had anyone to talk about this to, ‘cause everyone just puts him on this podium; they say I’m being unfair, it’s not good to think something like that, and…”

The distance closed enough. Kim Dokja hurls his fist. The gun drops to the ground. He slams his body against him—only enough to send the villain tumbling backwards.

It’s plenty.

“Go!”

The woman slips out of the villain’s grip, catches the keys Kim Dokja throws her way and bolts out of the room. The villain smashes his elbow into Kim Dokja’s face. Blood trails down Kim Dokja’s nose. Ah, shit.

He stumbles backwards, landing on his ass and grabs the gun. Quickly he scrambles to his feet. Runs towards the podium at the front of the room. Spiderman’s heel meets the villain’s chest. He throws one punch after another. Swings up and around. The villain struggles to keep up; he misses his hits, turns around each time like he’s trying to dance with two left feet.

“Spiderman!”

Spiderman briefly glances away from the fight. Locks eyes with Kim Dokja, who’s gesturing wildly towards a broken-off wooden podium. He webs it, tugs it towards them; it comes barreling towards the villain, crashing into him without any time for him to think.

The villain loses his balance just briefly. Blindly he flails his arms. None of his punches connect. Spiderman twists webs around his limbs. He tries to kick him—Spiderman launches himself high and away, dodging. When the villain finally regains his senses, he grabs the podium and throws it towards him. He lunges, grabs Spiderman’s wrist, pulls him, tosses him into broken floorboards. A web whistles past him; Spiderman pulls himself to his feet. The villain punches him square in the abdomen. The hero recoils.

They’re locked in a battle of trades: one fist for another. A web launched, a web cut. Spiderman swings behind the villain, and so the villain whips his entire body around. Tries to strike his ribcage. A barely on-time dodge. The distance between their fight and Kim Dokja is getting smaller and smaller. His pupils roam the room urgently; think of something, he’s telling himself. Think of something, come on!

He spots something. An idea pops up in his head. Spiderman moves backwards towards his direction as if he read his mind, and maybe that’s a newly acquired power of his, Kim Dokja entertains. The villain clumsily steps after him, fumbling across and throwing higher and higher punches as Spiderman keeps closer to the ceiling. Finally the villain stumbles—it’s Kim Dokja’s chance.

Kim Dokja tosses a broken chair leg. It falls right under the villain’s foot. Two things happen in quick succession: the villain trips—finally, fully, truly trips—and his body crashes into the ground. He’s lost his centre of balance. Spiderman shoots out web after web immediately around limbs, around the torso, over his mouth.

Labored breaths fill the room. The villain’s muffled complaints fall on deaf ears. Kim Dokja’s knees give out, but Spiderman grabs him in the nick of time. He holds him steady by the waist. Kim Dokja leans against a desk and swats Spiderman’s hand away.

“Stop—stop that,” Kim Dokja heaves, glancing away, “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Spiderman stares, but does not move another muscle. “That was dangerous.” He sounds angry. “He could’ve pulled the gun on you, or the hostage.”

There’s a headache he’s trying to stave off; Kim Dokja plants the gun he snatched away on the desk beside him, points at the non-shooting end. “Safety was on.”

“Still—”

Kim Dokja’s head lolls towards him, and when they’re finally eye-to-eye he raises the gun. Takes the safety off. Pulls the trigger.

Water spurts from the nozzle.

“It’s fake,” he says. “I realised it when he and the hostage were arguing.”

Spiderman looks speechless. Gives him an appreciative look. Kim Dokja musters a lazy grin.

“You’re welcome.”

Spiderman’s not having it. He grabs Kim Dokja’s face, tilting it. He’s unyielding, this guy. Just one of many traits superheroes must have, Kim Dokja supposes. “You still got wounded. Your nose could be broken.”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Kim Dokja yanks his face away, winces painfully, “Fuck. I’ll call the police too, not that they’re not on their way here already.” He sighs. “I’ll help handle things from here. Your job’s all done, Spiderman. I’ll make sure the villain doesn’t run. You can swing off into the sunset. He won’t escape any time soon.”

“You don’t know that,” Spiderman says.

“Well, if he does, I trust you’d be one swing away. Won’t you?”

Spiderman is quiet. Kim Dokja shakes his head, exasperated.

“Surely you can hear some sirens already, can’t you?” Kim Dokja probes. “That’s your cue.”

Spiderman glances at the restrained villain by his foot. Hesitates. “Can I trust you?” he asks.

Kim Dokja thinks it’s a bit tender, the way he says it. His mouth stretches. “Cross my heart.”

When Spiderman’s long gone, the villain gives Kim Dokja a curious look. There is no look back, but Kim Dokja can feel the gaze boring into the side of his skull.

“Shut up,” he hisses.

+

“Thank you,” says the earlier hostage. She looks around. “I’ll help pay your hospital bills. It’s the least I can do. Is that all right?”

Kim Dokja’s smile is tight. “It’s fine,” he says.

“Don’t say that. I told you, it’s the least I could do.” Her lips press together. “...Fine. What about transport? I’ll call you a cab—or pay for whatever transport you prefer. How about it?”

“Ah,” Kim Dokja glances up at the overhead light. “See, someone’s picking me up already, so—”

“Kim Dokja.”

Kim Dokja has never been happier to hear that baritone voice. His head swivels to the direction of the sun.

“Let’s go home,” Yoo Joonghyuk says. Kim Dokja’s smile turns wobbly, lopsided. He stumbles towards him just a bit, lets his body weight rest against the firmness of Yoo Joonghyuk’s presence. “A few days ago, you said you’ve gotten a lot better at crimefighting.” Yoo Joonghyuk shakes his head, but there’s no real venom in anything he does anymore when it comes to the two of them. “Enough to leave a fight uninjured, you said.”

Kim Dokja tells him he’s sorry as they walk. By the way Yoo Joonghyuk pointedly ignores glancing at his face, afraid of caving in in approximately point-five seconds, Kim Dokja can guess he’s not forgiven just yet. It’ll take a while, he’s guessing. A few promises here and there, a check of bandages and a nag or two as soon as they’re home.

A few metres behind them, he catches a murmur of words:

“So he was real?”

…Something in him unsettles.

V.

The TV light bounces off his face. The news tagline today is interesting. There’s a crowd pictured on-screen, swarming the remnants of his beaten up university. A masked, webbed man is escorted into a police vehicle. Camera flashes. Voices over voices. The voice of the commentator cutting in.

The space beside him sinks.

“You’re upset.” Yoo Joonghyuk places a glass of milk in front of him. Kim Dokja almost snickers; he’s not a child. He’s actively choosing not to sleep. There’s a difference. “Was it the woman from earlier?”

The news station’s logo flashes on the screen. “Kind of. Not really.” Then he finally decides on, “It’s not just her.”

The news station’s jingle rings through their apartment. Kim Dokja hears Yoo Joonghyuk sigh first before feeling a warmth close over his hand. His thumb rubs the spot just above his wrist.

Kim Dokja thinks about today. Thinks about the days prior. His rapidly beating heart, all those times. His efforts in drawing lines and walking them. It’s hard to put into words. He drops his cheek to Yoo Joonghyuk’s arm.

“I like you,” he says, “a lot. I love you.”

“It’s the same for me,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, voice low in an attempt for gentleness.

“Before we started dating, I had a crush on Spiderman. Did you know that?”

“...Yes.”

“Was I that obvious?”

Yoo Joonghyuk lets out a soft breath. He leans his head against his.

“I was a little jealous,” he admits.

“I know. You didn’t really try to hide it. Possessive bastard.”

“Do you dislike it?”

“No. I find it endearing sometimes,” he yawns. “Keyword, sometimes. I don’t want it, like, controlling you.”

“So I’m not the problem.”

He huffs. “Far from it. The only problem is all this—unpleasantness I’m feeling.” A grimace. “I’m upset at myself, I think. I don’t see it this way, but whenever Spiderman and I interact, people interpret it as flirting. Once or twice as a joke would be fine, and I’d get it, especially in the beginning. But I’ve told him point-blank to stop with the excessive saving, the odd remarks. I don’t think he’s being flirty either. He’s a superhero trying to save another citizen. Worry is natural in that line of action.”

Yoo Joonghyuk switches the channel. Kim Dokja watches him filter through the channels. He ends up landing on a kid’s show. This time, he really does snicker.

“You shouldn’t mind what they say,” Yoo Joonghyuk says.

“Easier said than done.”

“Do you feel guilty?” he asks. “You shouldn’t.”

Kim Dokja hums, taking a moment to think about things once more. Sure, banter has always been a staple in his interactions with just about everyone he comes across, but when he looks back at everything, it isn’t to say that he doesn’t understand where the murmurs are coming from. Something ugly crawls up his gut, and he feels nauseous suddenly, like he’s about to throw up.

Then he says, truthfully, “I don’t think I adore anyone else like how I adore you. I haven’t.”

“I know.”

“I cherish you, even when you act like the protagonist of a lousy romcom sometimes.”

“I thought I acted like the protagonist of your action webnovels.”

“Well—that, too.” Kim Dokja clears his throat, flustered. “Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive. It’s just—you’re everything in one, it’s kind of ridiculous. A good cook. An attentive boyfriend. Way out of my league. I mean—have you ever looked in a mirror? And—” his eyes trail to their fingers. Feels the way scars press against his skin. Kim Dokja has had multiple occasions to memorise them. And he has. He says, “You’re kind.”

Even before they started dating, Yoo Joonghyuk cooked for him the moment he realised how poorly he was taking care of himself. You’re going to cause everyone else trouble, he had scowled, practically tossing some pre-made food his way, boxed and ready to go. Kim Dokja had clumsily caught his prize, smiled awkwardly, unsure of how to respond, but his words did sting slightly, and so resulted in one voiced ouch.

Later down the line, Kim Dokja had figured out what Yoo Joonghyuk really meant.

(I worry, said through the beeps of the microwave and a succinctly phrased note.)

The world in front of him blurs. Kim Dokja thinks: it’s unfair.

“Joonghyuk-ah, what if I like two people at the same time?”

He feels Yoo Joonghyuk tense against him. Plays with his hand, despite.

“My pulse picks up in my ears when we talk, too many times for it to just be a one-off thing. I admire him like a fan would, but we’ve interacted far too closely. Our conversations aren’t forced. It’s fun to talk to him. My ears warm. I get flustered easily when he speaks. He’s,” he swallows, eyes burning, “kind—fuck.” The worst thing is, sometimes Kim Dokja sees Yoo Joonghyuk in Spiderman, and vice versa. “Shit.”

Perhaps that is the root of his feelings for their city hero.

Yoo Joonghyuk untangles their limbs and grabs his face. Brings his hands up to his cheeks. Collects dollops of—ah.

Kim Dokja hadn’t realised he was crying.

There’s a complicated expression on Yoo Joonghyuk’s face.

“Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk begins. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, like the words he’s about to say will tear skyscrapers and crash into them. No. Oh, no. “Listen, I have to tell you—”

A hiccup cuts him off. Hurriedly he cups his fingers underneath Kim Dokja’s unfocused eyes. A shake of the head. Kim Dokja can’t find it in himself to not avoid his eyes, can’t bear for their gazes to lock. He can feel himself shaking violently. His lungs rattling. Another hiccup.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice warbling over. His face is too wet. He feels disgusting. Feels too much. “I’m—I’ll be fine—tomorrow. Swear it. So—” Too many tears are pooling into Yoo Joonghyuk’s palms; maybe they’ll have enough for a river, soon. “Get mad at me tomorrow. Tear my heart in two. I’d understand. But just—” he hiccups, “tomorrow.”

“Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk gathers him in his arms. Picks him up, piece by wobbly piece. Kim Dokja’s hands have made their way to his back. They’re clutching the fabric of his shirt like a personal lifeline. Scrambles for some kind of reprieve. But all Yoo Joonghyuk can do is hush him by the sound of his name.

“I love it when you say my name,” Kim Dokja says between sobs, tired eyes falling shut for a moment, “but I don’t know if I can bear it, if you say anything else right now.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s breath trembles. Kim Dokja can hear it. Wants to tell him how he’s sorry a hundred times over.

“Dokja,” comes his voice, softest as he’s ever managed. Kim Dokja can’t help but cry a bit more, because the call of his name sounds like forgiveness—he doesn’t understand why.