Work Text:
01. he was sunshine, i was midnight rain.
-
In the scattered fragments of Kim Dokja’s memory,
there was a day when he had once traced someone's name onto the fogged window of a car, the world outside cloaked in a heavy mist.
A thin, blurred film of moisture dulled the clear glass, blurring the shapes beyond.
He sat watching the passing figures in long coats and the round umbrellas drifting endlessly down the sidewalk, his mind idly circling around a name he could no longer quite hold onto.
Without realizing it, he let his thoughts slip away.
The voice of a man rose up from the haze, calling his name—echoing like a song he had heard a billion times, familiar to the point of exhaustion.
"I’ve decided, I won’t fall in love anymore."
Dokja remembered saying those words to his sister, Kim Dokmi, before he left City A—the city where he had once carved out a small place for himself in the art world—to start over in Gucheon, a city so dazzling yet so cold.
Dokmi had married a successful man and given birth to a pair of twins, their home now steady and whole, with nothing left to weigh on her but the thought of her only brother.
They had lost their parents early. For as long as he could remember, it had always been just the two of them, carrying each other through.
On the day he decided to drop out of university—to abandon a practical, steady major in favor of studying art—Dokmi had almost beaten her younger brother black and blue.
She didn’t hate the idea of him becoming an artist; it was just that, at the time, their hands were empty. Every month’s living expenses had to be scraped together, penny by penny.
Their aunt’s family was well-off, but their support only went so far.
At fifteen, Dokmi had already been tutoring younger students just to earn a few extra bills, while Dokja spent his days dancing on the streets.
It hadn’t been that long ago that he declared he would become a dancer, and now here he was, saying he wanted to be an artist instead.
Dokmi didn’t judge her brother’s dreams. She simply thought they were too far-fetched, too fragile, for the complicated life the two of them were living.
Yet Kim Dokja, full of determination, went to their aunt to ask for money to begin studying art.
Their aunt didn’t oppose him; she only made him promise he wouldn’t quit halfway. Because of that, Dokmi, too, had stopped trying to talk him out of it.
After a wealthy patron in City A took an interest in Dokja’s paintings, life began, almost imperceptibly, to shift.
A few collectors voiced their admiration, and Dokja managed to sell a few pieces for prices far beyond what he had ever dared to imagine.
He felt a mixture of fear and exhilaration, sometimes unsure if his paintings were truly worth that much.
But in the end, every piece he put up for sale was swept away.
The money he earned was enough for him to rent a fairly spacious apartment and build a stable life.
Still, what was bound to happen, happened.
Love came, as it always does, blind and uninvited.
A heart that had once opened so easily had now sealed itself shut, all because of one man.
Dokja had loved him—loved him with everything he had left—and then had learned to let him go.
In the end, he chose to walk away, leaving behind everything they had once shared.
"I promise. I won’t fall in love again."
Dokja recited the silent promise in his mind to his sister.
Whenever he thought of it, bitterness caught sharp in his throat, and a raw sting burned at the bridge of his nose.
The money he had saved with such careful effort was enough for him to rent a small, modest room—fully furnished.
It wasn’t in a bustling neighborhood, but it was enough.
Enough that he could fall asleep at night, surrounded by the quiet presence of elderly neighbors.
And it wrapped itself around the sorrow inside Dokja, cloaking the boy’s body in a pitch-black night, like a baby’s blanket, lulling him into sleep.
Dreams began to sprout.
The shame he had hidden away took root and blossomed into thorn-covered flowers.
Before he could pull back, afraid of the thorns piercing his fingertips, countless wounds had already bloomed across his skin.
They crisscrossed over him, oozing fresh, vivid red.
On the nights when sleep refused to come, when the moonlight slipped through the cracks and left a pale trail across the bedsheets, Dokja often found himself jolting awake in the dead of night.
To paint.
He painted the darkened sky and the sleepless golden city, sketching them from memory.
And when dawn finally broke, he would collapse into tears beside his easel, paintbrush still clutched in hand.
The tears fell uncontrollably, and he would hastily wipe them away with the sleeve of his shirt.
The soft, broken sounds of his sobs echoed through the house where he lived alone, desolate and silent like an abandoned island.
After long days of weeping until he was utterly drained, Dokja finally completed his painting.
Fortunately, it was selected to be displayed in an exhibition for promising young artists.
He didn’t truly blend in with the people he met there; perhaps the long stretches of silence had made speaking, connecting, something difficult for him.
Among the guests, there were a few renowned artists—faces that looked familiar, yet belonged to strangers he might only ever see once or twice in his life, if fate was kind enough to grant him even that.
Dokja wore a simple black blazer, paired with nothing but a plain beige T-shirt underneath.
He hadn’t expected Gucheon’s winter to descend so suddenly tonight, and his pale hands tightened around the stem of a wine glass in a futile attempt to keep warm. Every so often, he tucked one hand into his pocket, seeking a little comfort against the chill.
As one of the artists whose work was being exhibited, he couldn’t simply slip away early.
He lingered at a few familiar corners, keeping mostly to himself. Anyone who approached him received a polite, charming smile, but Dokja himself lacked the courage to start a conversation.
He thought the night would pass like that— a slow, repeating cycle until the hour struck and he could finally leave.
What he hadn’t expected was that someone special would want to meet him.
His name was Yoo Joonghyuk, an artist from the capital who had recently begun expanding his career in Gucheon—and who happened to be deeply in love with painting.
Tall and strikingly handsome were the first words that came to Dokja’s mind to describe him, and Dokja was not someone who thought like that often.
He was a creature of aesthetics, careful with his heart, unwilling to love.
He didn’t want to be moved by a stranger—
not here, not in the middle of an art exhibition, not in a city that wasn’t home.
Every encounter now was just passing rain—soon to fall, soon to stop.
But Joonghyuk was brilliant.
When he smiled, Dokja could only think of soft, tender sunlight at dawn.
He thought of the way Joonghyuk’s eyes crinkled as he introduced himself,
the black curls that fell over his forehead,
the sharp bridge of his nose,
the clean, angular line of his jaw.
Dokja had never named his muse before,
not until that day.
"Hello, Yoo Joonghyuk."
One name.
Three syllables.
As melodic as the old vinyl records Dokja used to play, again and again.
Joonghyuk was the one who first reached out to Dokja—at first through the manager, and later, they exchanged personal numbers.
Dokja’s passion had begun with Joonghyuk’s striking outward beauty, but over time, he rewrote everything himself.
The light drizzle had turned into a sudden, drenching rain.
Their first date was nothing like what Dokja had imagined.
He had thought Joonghyuk would quietly lead him somewhere secluded, away from the eyes of the entertainment industry. It would have been understandable—Joonghyuk was still a young singer, with a bright future ahead of him.
But Joonghyuk wasn’t what Dokja had thought.
He brought him to a public art exhibition right in the heart of the city, wearing only a black cap and a mask to shield his identity. Dokja did the same, because he didn’t want to draw any attention, either.
Joonghyuk listened to Dokja’s thoughts with a kind of reverent attentiveness, patiently absorbing every word as Dokja spoke about the paintings he loved.
He never interrupted, never yawned out of boredom. Instead, he looked at Dokja with eyes so bright, so full of stars.
"I'm sorry. I've been talking too much, haven't I?" Dokja smiled sheepishly.
And that was when Joonghyuk answered:
"No, not at all. You have no idea how beautiful you are... I could listen to you all day and admire you every single second."
Because of that, Dokja forgot about the endless nights he had spent aching for the golden city, forgot the deserted island where he had once lived, alone.
There were times when Joonghyuk would drive him back to his small apartment—and yet he wouldn't leave. Talking with Joonghyuk made Dokja forget even the unfinished painting waiting for him at home.
Some time later, Joonghyuk flew out of Gucheon to attend an award ceremony in Paris.
He asked Dokja if he would come with him, but to his surprise, Dokja refused.
Dokja never gave a reason, and Joonghyuk never pressed for one. They stayed in touch nonetheless, and those late-night video calls became something like a small miracle for Dokja.
Joonghyuk set an alarm to call him every morning, right on time.
And from that moment on, Dokja stopped overcomplicating how he felt about him.
He simply called Joonghyuk "the sunlight."
He was the radiant sun—
brilliant and blinding at the start of every day.
His life was wrapped in a halo of light.
But perhaps because he was so bright,
so far ahead, he could never quite reach Dokja. He couldn’t change him.
02. he wanted it comfortable, i wanted that pain.
-
Dokja had a habit of seeking out old wounds.
The emotions inside him would bounce up like a round ball, sudden and hard to control.
The next month, when Joonghyuk flew to Gucheon, Dokja had already gone back to visit his sister in City A. He left behind only a single message for Joonghyuk:
"I'll be back in three days."
Dokja knew that time was limited—and the time Joonghyuk could spare for him was even more precious.
But he always acted as if none of it mattered. As if he was doing just fine without Joonghyuk beside him.
The thing that surprised Kim Dokmi the most was that the man named Joonghyuk never once showed any sign of frustration or blame toward her careless little brother.
She had thought men like that didn't exist—not in this world, not in any other.
Or perhaps, she thought bitterly, Joonghyuk simply didn’t love Dokja enough to be hurt by him.
In the end, the outcome was exactly as she had feared.
Dokja spoke lightly, almost carelessly,
"He’s never said he loved me. We’ve never made any promises. Isn’t that more comfortable?"
Dokmi flicked her brother’s forehead, earning a sharp yelp of pain as Dokja rubbed at the spot with a pout. She gave him a long, disappointed look before saying, slowly and carefully:
"If he hasn't said he loves you, then delete his number. Stop seeing him."
"Why should I?" Dokja asked, looking genuinely puzzled.
Dokmi only shook her head at her younger brother’s indifference. While she washed the rice to cook dinner, she spoke with a calm patience:
"You’ve already had feelings for him. If you’re not willing to be serious about him, then set him free. He’s not exactly someone who lives an ordinary life either. You’re walking on a tightrope, Dokja."
The truth was, Dokja had thought about it countless times.
He couldn’t follow Joonghyuk to social gatherings. He couldn’t meet Joonghyuk’s closest friends. He couldn’t ever openly hold his hand or call him his.
If they ever made their relationship public, it would be the end of what little freedom they had—and truthfully, they had never had true freedom to begin with.
Dokja was wary of strangers. He had no desire to get close to the glamorous faces that filled the entertainment industry.
And because they could never love like ordinary people,
Dokja realized, perhaps he would never even step across the threshold of Joonghyuk’s home.
There were too many things that scared him, so different from the reckless obsession he felt in the early days.
Dokja asked himself why. Then, he quickly realized:
it was because he loved so deeply, he feared just as much.
He returned after three days, and together they made dinner and watched TV. The painting easel was placed in the corner of the room, with the color palette and brushes neatly arranged.
Late into the night, sleep overtook him, and Dokja accidentally drifted off while resting against Joonghyuk’s chest. The next morning, he woke up in bed, breakfast was already laid out on the table.
Dokja thought Joonghyuk had left, but he returned with a bag of fruit from the supermarket. He hummed a few melodies as he swiftly washed the fruit, letting it dry before reminding Dokja to put it in the fridge.
Dokja stared at the basket of fruit, amazed, then turned to him and said, "But it’s just me here... How am I supposed to finish all this?"
Joonghyuk smiled and ruffled his hair.
"As long as you eat and take care of yourself, that’s all that matters."
"It sounds like you're taking care of a sick person..."
At that, Joonghyuk didn't hesitate. He bluntly replied:
"You've lost weight. I do have eyes, you know. You really believe that I did not notice?"
His words left Dokja speechless.
Joonghyuk had never stayed in Gucheon for long; before even a week had passed, he had to leave the city. Most of the time he spent was dedicated to his promotional activities back home, such as filming variety shows or working with musicians to prepare for his next album.
He had once said that preparing an album required a great deal of time, mostly in the studio or at home. He couldn’t compose music if the surroundings were distracting or lacked the comfort needed for his creative process.
Dokja nodded thoughtfully, trying to engrave those words in his mind, for he knew that there was a high chance he would never see the studio where Joonghyuk worked, or his home.
Dokja focused on the reality closest to him, trying to keep himself grounded and not overwhelmed by lofty hopes. The expectations he placed on love were no different from daydreams in the daylight. Illusions, born from empty fantasy.
Dokja had learned from the lessons of his past love, when the eldest son of that wealthy patron pursued him and won. The differences in their backgrounds and worldviews layered over each other, creating an insurmountable divide that doomed the relationship.
That, of course, was the gentlest way to put it.
If he were to describe the former relationship in its stark truth, all he could see was himself as a beautiful doll or a submissive creature, obedient to its master without question. That man wielded too much power; his voice carried the weight of command, drowning out the last traces of Dokja’s own self.
And now, he regretted it.
There were countless nights when he lay awake, burying his face in his hands, wishing he had never sold so many of his paintings. He had sold his art as though selling his own body, chasing after the money of others, and in the process, suffocating his own passion.
Later, Dokja picked up the brush again, this time fueled by pain and shame.
And it all came to an end when Joonghyuk appeared.
Was it a loss, or a gain?
Perhaps, it was simply that the language of his passion had changed.
Whatever it was that was slowly destroying him inside, Dokja had learned how to wield it well.
-
Silence is a convenient way to kill love.
Thus, Dokja avoided Joonghyuk, neither answering his messages nor returning his calls for days on end. And when he did respond, his tone was distant, almost indifferent.
Though Dokja never once offered any explanation for his absence, Joonghyuk would only ask, quietly:
"You've been so busy, haven't you? Are you still taking care of yourself?"
"Shall I come home to you?"
Dokja would usually reply in the briefest, most concise manner. His messages often read something like:
"I'm painting. I can take care of myself, just getting a bit too caught up, that's all."
Joonghyuk would sometimes return to Gucheon without warning, like a sudden gust of wind. He would send armfuls of gifts and bouquets to Dokja’s home, their value growing greater with each visit rather than dwindling away.
Instead of using them, Dokja began giving the presents away to his neighbors. Some kept them for themselves; others passed them on to their children and grandchildren. Watching the simple joy light up their faces, Dokja found a quiet happiness blooming within his own heart.
There was a time when he stayed with his sister in City A for an entire week without bringing along even the most basic personal belongings. After stepping off the train, he hailed a cab to Kim Dokmi’s house, greeted his brother-in-law with a smile, and then set off alone to shop for necessities. Oddly enough, it was while standing in the supermarket aisle, contemplating which toothbrush to buy, that he felt the lightest and most unburdened he had been in a long while
Dokja no longer prioritized anyone but ‘Kim Dokja’ — the version of himself riddled with wretched emotions, the kind that would only drive himself to act selfishly, to hurt without meaning to. Over time, he stopped using the wounds of the past as an excuse.
Dokja admitted it: he was selfish, nothing more.
His love grew narrow, twisted by jealousy of the radiant light that wrapped around Joonghyuk’s existence. In the end, he turned away, abandoned not only Joonghyuk’s world —but the fragile little universe he had once opened just for him.
So when Joonghyuk sat down across from him and quietly asked,
“Could you find it in your heart to love me again?”
Dokja, stunned, fumbled for words — scouring through all the language he had once collected, piecing together a fragile answer:
"I have made up my mind a long time ago... that I wouldn’t fall in love again."
-
The last time they met, Joonghyuk remembered Dokja saying:
"I am riddled with flaws you can neither fix nor heal. I don't love you—not because I can't love, but because I choose not to. Because I am… who I am."
At first, he couldn't understand.
But on some distant Christmas night, his phone buzzed, and Dokja’s name lit up at the top of his inbox.
The message was a photo of the old, familiar TV in Dokja’s tiny room—and on the screen was Joonghyuk himself. Attached to it was a single line of text:
"Sunshine, as always."
There was even a small sun emoji beside it, and it nearly drove him mad.
It was crueler than silence itself: the way someone could reach out as if nothing had ever happened, as if no hearts had been broken.
Yet even so, the love buried deep inside him clawed its way upward, refusing to die.
After a long stretch of questioning himself, Joonghyuk spun endlessly in circles of doubt and silent reproach.
There was a time when, unable to hold himself back after too many glasses of wine, he picked up the phone and called Dokja.
He asked, his voice thick and unsteady:
"Is it truly impossible for you to love me?"
Dokja might have answered—or perhaps he didn't. Joonghyuk couldn't remember clearly through the haze of alcohol.
But the essence of it was this:
"I don't know how to love you..."
And somehow, Joonghyuk understood:
Dokja had loved him—with every ounce of strength he could muster, in every way he knew how.
But there was a line he could never cross.
"Was it me?" Joonghyuk asked. "Was I too late?"
"No," Dokja answered, without hesitation.
Still, in the end, he never offered an answer to the most difficult riddle of their relationship.
In the scattered fragments of Yoo Joonghyuk’s memory, there was once a moment when he sat for hours, listening to someone unravel the meaning of a single painting—and he never once grew restless.
In that suspended moment, there was only Kim Dokja before him—more vivid, more achingly beautiful than any work of art, pulling Joonghyuk closer without a word.
He had never once paused to measure gain or loss, never weighed the cost of running toward him. Those were the chances he knew he must claim for himself.
Then, without even realizing it, he let himself drift.
He remembered the days when Dokja would sit quietly by the easel, a brush between his fingers.
Whether it was sunlight streaming through the windows or the velvet hush of nightfall that cloaked him, everything that touched Dokja seemed like a bless, became a miracle.
However, every so often, it would be Dokja’s voice that pulled him back to earth.
“Joonghyuk, do you know? Some souls are born of sunshine, others are born of midnight rain. When I met you, I was already the rain, falling softly in the still of the night. But I stubbornly chased the sun, spoke your words, though I never truly understood their meaning.”
Joonghyuk and Kim Dokja came from two worlds apart, standing together, bound by a love so pure, yet forever held by an unspoken truth—that their words would never truly reach one another.