[ I wish you would hate me, he thinks as he watches Joonghyuk draw closer with each step. It would be better if both Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk could find it in themselves to. For all the pain that he's caused, for the misery he's brewed, for the lives that fell to the wayside in his pursuit of an unreachable ending. He can't seem to stop hurting them or watching them get hurt because of him, the proof sitting heavy in his pocket at this very moment.
He wishes they would hate him as much as he hates himself. ]
You never asked for it back.
[ That's always been the problem with them. They don't talk. They let their misunderstandings get ahead of them and wait until it's reached a catastrophic point of no return. He had been so depressed on that day he'd found the pocket watch resting alone on the bed, and he had remained that way for the days following. As if he would give it back after receiving such a blow. There's a pettiness in him too, after all.
When Joonghyuk finally stops in front of him, Dokja's gaze is steady as he stares up at him. He knows this face better than anyone, and despite himself, despite what had transpired only a few minutes ago, there's such an open fondness in his dark eyes. All he'd ever wanted was make it so that Yoo Joonghyuk could reach the end, for there to be a period of rest for the man who had suffered everything that could be suffered. And to think that it had been Dokja on the other end of that tale, subconsciously moving the strings with every comment he had foolishly typed out in an effort to not be alone. To have someone to struggle with and to know that triumphing over those struggles was possible.
He'll never be able to atone for what he's done.
But in this moment, hand held out to him, Dokja seeks to give what it is he's always sought out from Yoo Joonghyuk. ]
I should have been the one to find you in the shrines.
[ He lifts his own hand to slide his fingers against that gloved palm, rests them against that offered wrist before they shift to curl around Joonghyuk's hand. When Dokja squeezes, it's gentle. Apologetic. ]
I'm sorry I wasn't there. [ His other hand drops his sword, reaches out toward the shard he sees peeking past fabric and his fingertips lightly brush against the cloth there, not yet making contact with the stone. He remembers what it had felt like when concerned hands had passed his shard along, the coil of discomfort that came from distrust. Nothing like that exists between himself and Yoo Joonghyuk, despite what he might want or wish. He knows this as fact. ] I'm sorry.
no subject
He wishes they would hate him as much as he hates himself. ]
You never asked for it back.
[ That's always been the problem with them. They don't talk. They let their misunderstandings get ahead of them and wait until it's reached a catastrophic point of no return. He had been so depressed on that day he'd found the pocket watch resting alone on the bed, and he had remained that way for the days following. As if he would give it back after receiving such a blow. There's a pettiness in him too, after all.
When Joonghyuk finally stops in front of him, Dokja's gaze is steady as he stares up at him. He knows this face better than anyone, and despite himself, despite what had transpired only a few minutes ago, there's such an open fondness in his dark eyes. All he'd ever wanted was make it so that Yoo Joonghyuk could reach the end, for there to be a period of rest for the man who had suffered everything that could be suffered. And to think that it had been Dokja on the other end of that tale, subconsciously moving the strings with every comment he had foolishly typed out in an effort to not be alone. To have someone to struggle with and to know that triumphing over those struggles was possible.
He'll never be able to atone for what he's done.
But in this moment, hand held out to him, Dokja seeks to give what it is he's always sought out from Yoo Joonghyuk. ]
I should have been the one to find you in the shrines.
[ He lifts his own hand to slide his fingers against that gloved palm, rests them against that offered wrist before they shift to curl around Joonghyuk's hand. When Dokja squeezes, it's gentle. Apologetic. ]
I'm sorry I wasn't there. [ His other hand drops his sword, reaches out toward the shard he sees peeking past fabric and his fingertips lightly brush against the cloth there, not yet making contact with the stone. He remembers what it had felt like when concerned hands had passed his shard along, the coil of discomfort that came from distrust. Nothing like that exists between himself and Yoo Joonghyuk, despite what he might want or wish. He knows this as fact. ] I'm sorry.