Things chip away, almost faster than Secretive Plotter expected (the way Kim Dokja spoke with a softer voice, snark gone; the way he openly admitted that the Plotter's appearance made him panic, flustered. Thw slightest shiver that he would've missed if he'd glanced away for even a second. The way kim dokja warmed up enough to bang his fists against the door of the King of the outer gods, and demanded to be let in.)
(Of course, there were some things that he couldn't answer. Not because he didn't have one, but he'd much rather have Kim Dokja work for it than hand it to him on a silver platter. He was the ruler of amusement, and didn't pay the star stream for a puppet to control—he absolutely hated that. No, he'd indulge kim dokja in a little game of push and pull, of cat and mouse, because watching the star struggle to escape, to find things out, invokes something that the Plotter hasn't felt in a long, long time.)
(And then, when he figures it out, Secretive Plotter would reward him for his efforts; shower him with praise and otherworldly riches alike.)
(Be it delicacies the man could have only dreamt of, new stories to ease the itches in his mind, or the most luxurious of items. It didn't matter. Secretive Plotter would have them in Kim Dokja's hands.)
The progression happened so fast, that for a moment, he wondered; how?
And then he remembers with striking clarity; he was the man that Kim Dokja's loved for over ten years. A part of the man— most of the man. The novel had ended before Yoo Joonghyuk's existence could extend into the Yoo Joonghyuk that had been accompanying this lonely reader thus far.
The revelation that his life had just been some novel in Kim Dokja's world didn't shock him as much as it did to Yoo Joonghyuk of the 3rd turn, if at all. After all, to an existence that travelled to parallel world lines and lived through thousands of years of dokkaebi's and constellations and wenny people, the thought of existing in a different form in another dimension was the least of his worries.
(Perhaps somewhere far away, Kim Dokja was nothing but a story as well. And if he were, Secretive Plotter hopes that his story is being cherished and adored.)
It wasn't something to worry about at all. But instead, something to vaunt. Because he was the one who's stories and fables and lives that Kim Dokja had fallen in love with. To the point where he cried because author-nim, arent you being too cruel to our regressor? To the point where he couldn't sleep because he was too giddy because wah...isn't joonghyukie too handsome? how could such a cool person exist?
He was the person that Kim Dokja adored to the point where he decided that he wanted to live (like a full circle coming to be; Kim Dokja gave him a will to live and see the end of the 1863rd world line, and he gave Kim Dokja a reason to continue living—they were made for each other.)
Him and all his 1863 regression turns, who brightened up this suffering child's life to the point where he dedicated years to diligently following his story. His, and not the 1864th turns Yoo Joonghyuk'a.
His.
Of course, because the 1864th turn is also a part of Yoo Joonghyuk, Kim Dokja would love him too. He loved all 1863 of his turns, so what's one more? Secretive Plotter doesn't blame him. It's a silly reason to berate someone, really. They were similar, because they were once the same. Ans when Kim Dokja's world became a part of his (and when Kim Dokja became his world), he thought it was the third regression turn—something from his story.
The reader followed Yoo Joonghyuk around, insisted on being his companion, and fought with him side by side under the impression that it was something from his precious novel—under the impression that the 1864th was his precious 186(3rd). It wasn't a problem, mistakes could be made, regardless of who the person was; Secretive Plotter would just have to teach kim dokja what differed him from the companion he'd left behind in Seoul.
Because what Yoo Joonghhuk couldn't do, he'd do; take care of Kim Dokja, pamper him, spoil him absolutely rotten. Let him have, and teach him to want. He would dote on the man in every way that they couldn't, and let it be known in every gesture from the smallest to the grandest; in the way that he'd hold Kim Dokja's hand and take him through the gardens (because there were outer gods in the forests outside the tranquil palace, and that was far, far too dangerous). In the way that he'd open the palace library brimmed with books as infinite as time and space just for that one reader—his reader.
Would show it in the way that he'd brand it on Dokja's pale skin (he remembers how Yoo Joonghyuk left finger-shaped marks on his throat when they first met, and would make sure to mark Kim Dokja in tenfold) with such devotion until he can't even look at himself without realizing how much he is wanted and cared for.
Ans he would do it, over and over again just like all those lifetimes, to the point that such a thought of ever leaving or putting himself in harm's way again would never even begin to cross Kim Dokja's mind, much less any thoughts of those useless pawns.
The steady flame continues to grow, with each passing day—maybe weeks, even? the progression of time was something that Secretive Plotter hadn't bothered to check on in eons—that Kim Dokja had spent there.
It grew and grew, like a small branch at a campfire, steadily expanding until its flames licked grass. Until the whole forest was encompassed and set ablaze in a fury that no storm could weather.
Until finally, it reached its tipping point when Kim Dokja managed to piece together that he was the Yoo Joonghyuk he'd been passionately following the story of, but also someone he was never familiar with. From all his regressions and the depression that plagued it, one thing that the Plotter learnt was that there were certain things in life that people just cannot handle. One being too much information, whether or not it was something obvious—confirmation always hit the hardest.
And he watched Kim Dokja's face quickly turn into a sickly expression from 999's subtle revelation; watched as his hand flew to his mouth, watched as he wobbled unsteadily.
(Because for the company, he could weather any storm, face any pain. But alone is when the realest side of him shines through—and though his attribute largely protected him from pain in the world lines, the N'gai forest was a place outside of it, so it's strength became greatly weakened. Kim Dokja's ability to handle information was limited to what he had before the scenarios started, and was as fragile as a sand castle in the face of an angry sea.)
The kkoma's accompanying him realize something's wrong soon enough, when familiar clacks of dress shoes disappear and the incessant chatter is replaced with silence.
"Kim Dokja?" one of them asks, Secretive Plotter doesn't bother to figure out who, watching from his spot as the readers eyes slowly blanked, unresponsive even when 999 trotts over to touch him, maybe shake him back to his senses.
Like the leg of a jenga tower being pulled out, Kim Dokja's knees buckle, giving out.
The kkoma's barely have time to catch him before he falls unconscious.
He had reasons to withhold information from the man, but this just confirms that he was more aware of Dokja's limits than Dokja himself. Something he prides in as much as he despises it, because he's been watching so intently that he could figure out Kim Dokja in a matter of seconds. Because Kim Dokja is so foreign to himself that he either can't tell when he's reached his limits or chooses to ignore it. Both answers do nothing to help the plotter's incoming headache.
41 gives him a pointed stare, watching as his empty glass becomes full again.
"I don't see any reward for you after you even prepared props to put up a show like this."
That's where they differed; the two most similar existences of a being that was like a cold, snowy storm. Even the most similar of snowflakes had their own deep intricacies that distinguished them. Where 41 had no compassion for anyone, rough and jagged at the edges, Secretive Plotter had the exception for one person.
He takes his coat off, folding it neatly. He feels 41's stare on him, even though he doesn't grace the kkoma with a glance.
"I wasn't putting on a show." he says, because it'd imply that he was acting. A crafted lie, a falsity, and he would never do that to Kim Dokja. "That guy from the 1863rd should've been a part of me originally. Just like all of you." A bitter taste sits on his tongue—not something pesky like abandonment, closer to jealousy. Envious.
Secretive Plotter had the most power, the most status, the more riches between them. He was a god that'd surpassed the final wall, had everything that Yoo Joonghyuk didn't, and yet...Yoo Joonghyuk had everything that Secretive Plotter wanted.
"It's all because of that fool, Kim Dokja." 41 says, regarding the speed of progression with the scenarios, but it gets drowned out by the Plotter's thoughts.
A minimal amount of losses, the closest group of comrades, the easiest progression with the least pain—those were trivial things that he couldn't care about now, numb to them. But the one that made them happen, Kim Dokja—why did Yoo Joonghyuk of the 1864th turn, of all people, have him?
(Why did he deserve kim dokja? A person who existed outside the novel kim dokja adored, who had no idea of the depth in the meaning of being his companion in life and death? A petty light flares up in his eyes when he recalls; Yoo Joonghyuk was furious when he'd learnt his life was a novel. Ungrateful brat.
He couldn't acknowledge the weight of Kim Dokja memorizing his lifeline—because he wasn't born from the novel, because those feelings weren't meant for him. Ans yet, Kim Dokja poured his everything into making sure that Yoo Joonghyuk would never die and regress.)
Kim Dokja couldn't even take care of himself—which isn't a problem, Secretive Plotter would gladly take on the role to do it himself. No, the problem was that he's always worrying about his company members' well-being's, all whilst ignoring his own. Would he have to teach the reader how to put himself first, as well?
It wouldn't be an issue in the slightest, because it falls snugly within the Plotter's plan of spoiling the man rotten. He doesn't care if it'll turn Dokja greedy; he's fairly certain he could provide anything he could ask for—within reasons, of course. Returning to his allies not being one of them. But anything else? Secretive Plotter would be more than happy to oblige.
Because Kim Dokja could lean over to him, and coyly ask, with that scheming, mischievous smile of his; for the world, for the stars and the oceans, for all the stories in existence, and Secretive Plotter would hand it all over to him without as much as a second thought.
All he had to do was ask. The power to do so laid on the tips of Dokja's fingers; the Plotter lay in his palm.
Anything you want, you shall have.
(The details of acquiring trickier things like stubborn constellations and making deals with sinister wenny people could always be sorted out later. What matters more is that Kim Dokja has everything he could ever ask for in his immediate acquisition.)
He stays asleep for some time after the fainting spell in front of the hall. With each passing day, he gives the plotter a new problem to worry about; currently, he's annoyed by the constant ping-pong game that the man's subjected himself to, tangoing between life and near death experiences. On the other hand, he can't get into those vexing situations if he's asleep.
(A dark, dark part of him comes out for a moment with the hope that Kim Dokja remains asleep for a long time—maybe forever, if it'd keep him safe.)
Hadn't there been a story like that? A witch cursed a Princess to an eternal sleep, whose only cure was true love's kiss, because she hadn't wanted to let the Princess go or be found. She curled vineyards over the ancient castle they resided in, as protection. But because the Kingdom couldn't accept their Princess' fate, they sent out a Prince to break the spell.
The witch became a dragon, in order to defeat him and keep her Princess safe from harm's way—going back to them meant that more people would know about the Princess, inevitably meaning more danger. Of course, wasn't it obvious that the solution would be staying with the witch?
The dark, twisted thing he's been pushing aside curls in his chest curiously. Tempted, almost. He brushes back Kim Dokja's hair, and watches as the strands slide back, gaze trailing down to long lashes that framed round, curious eyes that he hasn't seen in days. They trail lower, following the slope of his nose to the pink of slightly parted lips. Secretive Plotter's gaze stays transfixed, and—vaguely, he wonders about true loves kiss. How absurd. The corner of his lips twitch, in amusement this time, entertaining the thought.
Perhaps a fool like Yoo Joonghyuk would believe in that. He wonders if an indirect message of the sort could have The Conquering Kim cutting down the N'gai forest the same way that the Prince of the story had, cutting down the branches and ruins that surrounded the ancient castle. Would that make him the malicious witch, then?
(It wouldn't be all that horrendous; most of the 1864th world-line's beings already find his existence antagonistic, for his protective measures.)
He hums to himself in consideration, crossing his legs as he watches the steady rise and fall of Kim Dokja's chest. The witch wasn't truly malicious; just trying to protect what the others (who claimed to love the princess so much) couldn't. Even if she put the princess into an eternal sleep, she watched over her and protected her from the people that could've otherwise harmed her. Wasn't that more caring, more impactful, than crying to a Prince to save her?
(It doesn't matter, he wouldn't mind donning the role of a villain if it meant salvation for his star.)
Kim Dokja wasn't a princess by any means, but he fit the role, and the Plotter has no qualms about protecting an ancient castle with his life if Kim Dokja was the one who lived in it. There's a certain appeal in not having to worry over the reader's next impulse decision, but he finds himself dismayed when he thinks about not seeing those sharp eyes again. Or the thought of not getting to hear his voice as he bullshits his way out of something, or not getting to see the faces he'd make at the kkoma's varying insults.
Taking one of Dokja's pale hands, Secretive Plotter runs a glove-clad thumb over the back of it, contemplating the idea. The story worked well for the witch, but could he achieve something similar with the minor difference of his prince being aware of his dedication?
Tp shield him, he would sacrifice everything of himself for probability, but he'd rather have Kim Dokja awake and move around by his side, rather than stay confined to his world-line or the bed he was sleeping in. Within the N'gai forest, he'd let Dokja move around as he pleased.
(After all, what fun were tight leashes, harsh bounds? If he wanted Kim Dokja to trust him, he had to give him some room to work with, lure him into the illusion of being free.)
He'd also much rather have Dokja fall for him on his own, instead of force it to be with his powers. Because beliefs lay on experience; one can't believe something as wholly as they would when they'd experienced it themselves, and Kim Dokja wouldn't believe that the forest was dangerous if the Plotter just states so. He's much more fond of watching puppets be pulled by strings of fate as he watches the show unfold.
Of course, he's perfectly certain about it's outcome. Because the end of the maze hasn't changed; Kim Dokja just took a small turn. A detour. A longer route. But because he's Kim Dokja—smart, wonderful Kim Dokja—he would find his way back, and find his way to Secretive Plotter. All he had to do was wait and watch.
(When Kim Dokja tires from exploring and realizes the danger of the forest, that there's no end to it and returning to Secretive Plotter's arms, then he'll pull the leash taut. Act on his desire.)
He presses his lips to the back of Dokja's hand, gentle as a feather, before setting it down and heading out of the room.
—— ❈ ——
The first thing that Kim Dokja does upon waking up, is look for Secretive Plotter.
Of course, the Plotter's well aware of it, connected to the temporary channel that watched the constellation's every move. Watched the way he groaned in pain, eyes fluttering open. Watched the way he sluggishly moved around, and tried to call for his dokkaebi to no avail. Watched as he read the system message, and began looking around.
[The constellation, 'Demon King of Salvation', is calling the constellation, 'Secretive Plotter'.]
His eyes flicker to the system message momentarily, but pays no mind, attending back to his duties. Kim Dokja wasn't calling him because he wanted to see him, specifically, but because he's come to realise that there's no exit to this maze, and wants to confront the man who's made it to be that way. So that he can ask for an exit, demand it, because he thinks the Plotter would give in.
(For other matters, regarding Kim Dokja, perhaps.)
Unfortunately, everything has terms and conditions. Secretive Plotter would give the incarnation full access to everything under his power quicker than he would do that. So, he ignores the message.
The system notifications beep again.
[The constellation, 'Demon King of Salvation', is calling the constellation, 'Secretive Plotter'.]
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dokja's features pull down into a frown—no, a pout. He then huffs in annoyance, blowing away hair from his face, and crosses his arms in stubbornness. Secretive Plotter continues to ignore the messages, irritation fading away into amusement. Next to his throne and listing the other outer god's problems, 666's eyebrow twitches at the messages. They were busy.
Secretive Plotter knows that if Kim Dokja had the power, he would storm into the throne room and unleash his status in an attempt to fight him for an answer.
But here he is; in his bed, with the iv drip of fables still attached to his arm. Obedient. Not particularly well behaved—but, well, they could fix that soon.
(He hadn't earned the title Conquering King by letting wild things be, after all.)
Absentmindedly, the Plotter listens to his subjects' problems, with the occasional interjection of the more diplomatic kkoma's, and lets his thoughts wander to Kim Dokja. Surely, he couldn't keep sending such messages forever. He'd eventually grow tired, wouldn't he? The messages were noisy, and Secretive Plotter was going to grace him with a response at some point, but his curiosity spreads under his skin to the tips of his fingers, restless.
If he doesn't, would Kim Dokja give up? Would he call out to one of the kkomas? Maybe take out a book from the many shelves and drawers in his room, and continue reading? Secretive Plotter hasn't seen him so still—pliant, maybe?—since the scenarios started, always diving into some course of action or plan. It's fascinating.
What if Kim Dokja's particularly persistent? And keeps sending these messages until Secretive Plotter finally gives him his attention?
The simple, interesting thought spreads like wildfire. Suddenly he's hit with the curiosity; how would Kim Dokja say it, with his voice, instead of through a system message? Would it be similar to the way he angrily calls out to Yoo Joonghyuk when he disappears—the Plotter frowns. No, that was in the middle of restless battle. Here, Kim Dokja was in bed, obediently recovering. He was calm, so it wouldn't be a hissy, aggravated roar.
Would Kim Dokja ask politely, like the first time he'd stepped into the throne room? At his lack of reply, would Kim Dokja plead? He was the kind of person who got desperate quickly, patience breaking like the screen of his phone during the scenarios. Secretive Plotter wonders if it'd apply to other things, too.
(And when he tires of pleading, would he whine?)
He could imagine that if he were here, Kim Dokja would try to grab onto something of his—maybe his coat, and shake it around angrily if using his words didn't work.
[The constellation, 'Demon King of Salvation', is throwing a temper tantrum in the constellation, 'Secretive Plotter's direction.]
Before he knows it, he breaks character, laughing into his hand. It's not loud—a small amused puff of air, but it's a laugh nonetheless. The outer gods pause, whether in fear or surprise, and he watches as 666 bolts out the door, sending off a message before the Plotter himself can. It cuts off Dokja's own message halfway.
[The constellation, 'Demon King of Salvation' is—]
[The constellation, 'Secretive Plotter', is glaring at the constellation, 'Demon King of Salvation'.]
He clears his throat and smothers his chuckles as 666 runs off to deal with it, communicating on his behalf—but his lips stay pulled into an amused expression. Kim Dokja's so impatient.
How cute.
Though it was so, patience was an important value to harness. Adding onto his list, Secretive Plotter realises that he would have to teach Kim Dokja how to wait for things, as 666 bursts through the star's door on the screen, furious.
"You insane fool. Why are you making a ruckus like this?" 666 criticizes.
In calm surprise, as if he hadn't expected it to work, Dokja blinks at the kkoma. "Oh, so you came."
Glaring, 666 tells him, "if you want something, you can simply call for me. so stop with the barrage of noisy indirect messages."
Oh yes, he would most definitely have to teach Kim Dokja how to wait for things.
(Maybe have him sit nearby while Secretive Plotter sifts through his work, never once batting an eye in his direction. He wonders if Kim Dokja could wait if he promised to give him something in return—those always won him over in the scenarios. He wonders if he calls Kim Dokja good boy, and tells him that he'll get a reward if he behaves; would Kim Dokja be pliant and stay still, or would he huff and stir more trouble because he couldn't have it now?)
(No matter, Secretive Plotter's both prepared and equipped to handle both of those outcomes.)
—— ❈ ——
It goes without saying that Kim Dokja thinks too much. He never quite speaks up, always keeping to himself akin to a vase filled with clay; force too much, and the vase breaks. And because he constantly fails to realize that he too, has the option to share his thoughts and worries, the option to be dependent on someone other than himself, he forces down those thoughts into his head until he breaks.
Today seems to be one of those days where he's holed up in his thoughts, spacing out more often than not, likely busy trying to sift through his thoughts and find a strategy for his company members to break past the 99th scenario.
(It's just a little irritating that while said people were training and planning amongst themselves perfectly fine, Kim Dokja's running himself into the ground for their sake. Again. When it isn't needed.)
He's barely even touched his food, murim dumplings and chicken soup now cold.
(Of course, Secretive Plotter could just wave his hand, will it into existence, and the food would heat up again, but that's not the point.)
He sighs and wraps his fingers around the stem of his wine glass, lifting it to his lips when an idea strikes him. He sets it back down without taking a sip, and a moment later, a similar glass materialises next to Dokja's plate, its contents stirring slightly. The sudden motion manages to shake the man out of his stupor, and he looks up questioningly as if he'd missed something.
Secretive Plotter just motions to it, swirling the contents of his own glass. "It seems that you're worrying quite a bit."
He's seen Kim Dokja drink before, on the channel. And it'd gone horribly when he almost kissed Yoo Sangah, equally drunk, worsened by the fact that Yoo Joonghyuk had walked in on the scene. However, the Secretive Plotter has no qualms about how he angrily walked off, burning with such jealousy and pettiness that it quickly became comical. It was quite entertaining, even if most of the constellations began berating Dionysus for meddling with the incarnations' drinks.
But neither Dionysus, nor Yoo Sangah, nor Yoo Joonghyuk are here, and the alcohol only had such an effect because of the constellation—so Secretive Plotter thinks that some wine should be perfectly alright. It's an excellent stress relief, from over a millennia of personal experience. The taste also pairs excellently with the food; lightly mulled and warming from within.
Kim Dokja gives him a strange look for his prior words, the way he talks; as if someone took Yoo Joonghyuk's speech pattern and sanded down its sharp edges, until something smooth and eloquent and vague remained, constantly leaving him to figure out what it meant. Dokja doesn't dislike it, but it's... something. Yoo Joonghyuk would just glare at him and maybe throw a useful item at his head, so this treatment is a little— new.
(A bit worrisome, a little intimidating.)
He eyes the contents of the glass with hesitation, but then wraps a hand around it and brings it to his lips for a small sip anyway.
(Because this wasn't his father, who became violent when alcohol met his tongue. Because this wasn't Dionysus, who liked to be mischievous and play pranks on unsuspecting people. Dionysus wasn't bad, and Dokja enjoyed his company, really—he's just a little…overwhelming.
But Secretive Plotter's the end of the character that Kim Dokja's been faithfully reading about since he was 14, and is probably the closest thing to security he has. Not just because he's Dokja's favourite person, but he's...trustworthy. He doesn't see the point in pranks, and values safety over any short lived humor that most people would prioritise.)
So, despite his bad prior experiences with alcohol, he doesn't feel nervousness buzzing in his system when he picks the glass up.
( With Secretive Plotter, he's safe. )
There isn't any harm in a light drink, to take his mind off of the scenarios and the kids and the company; they were doing perfectly fine. The Plotter even showed him the live footage, and they were training hard and planning strategies with the ideas he's given them previously. It's fine. He should relax.
Dokja ends up gulping it down in one swig.
He can almost hear the lecture that wine is a drink meant to be sipped and savoured, but he's not particularly culinary coordinated so to hell with it. He grabs a murim dumpling from the plate between them and bites into the soft dough. The filling is as delicious as he'd hoped it'd be when he read four pages about it on ways of survival, minced meat and sweet, soft vegetables, all blended together into a savoury meal.
But the restlessness doesn't go away.
To push those thoughts aside, Dokja shovels the chicken broth into his mouth. Still, they stay in the back of his mind. Lurking. Preying.
Yoosungie and Gilyoungie are good at adapting, but they're still kids. Will they be okay? It keeps nagging at him. Will Gong Pildu and Lee seolhwa be fine at the industrial complex? What about his mother?
Dokja takes another furious bite into the dumpling, less wow, this seasoning is incredible and more will they be fine without me? He could see that they were doing well—but Yoo Joonghyuk was physically well in the 1863rd round, only for his mind to be a crumbled mess. Were his companions like that too? On autopilot and ready to fight, but in a very delicate mental state that could be swayed easily?
He looks at his empty glass, and wonders; hey, aren't you supposed to be alcoholic? Why aren't you taking effect?
Did becoming a constellation make him immune now?
It's so noisy, in his own thoughts.
He looks up at Secretive Plotter, twirling noodles into a neat pile on his spoon—so much like the Yoo Joonghyuk he knew; because this is a part of him. So why is he feeling so unsteady? He opens his mouth, eyes shifting to the soft, half eaten dumpling in his hands, and thinks; I want to enjoy this. The Yoo Joonghyuk from the novel, untouched by his existence, didn't consume things just because. He drank because it did something, didn't he? It doesn't make sense for a mere constellation to be resistant to something that the King of the outer gods wasn't resistant to.
So, quieter than he'd like to admit, and heavy with the weight of worry, Dokja asks, "Can I have some more of…that?"
The Plotters eyes flicker up from his food to meet his, glass to his lips. He hums in appraisal, gloved, slender fingers moving, and Dokja watches his glass refill from nothingness. Secretive Plotter sends him an inexplicable look as he rests his head on his hands, and Dokja doesn't know how to feel about that, either.
( Anything you want, you will get, Secretive Plotter says with his eyes. He doesn't say it out loud, because it's far more entertaining to watch Kim Dokja struggle to figure out—but it'll be worth it when he does; all the more rewarding.)
(Because stars are bright, and Kim Dokja's the brightest of them all.)
He almost wants to reward Dokja for the fact that he'd asked for more, praise him, But he keeps his lips sealed for now.
One day, he'll certainly do that; lavish Dokja in so many riches for everything that he's done, for everything he tried to do, couldn't do, to the point that Kim Dokja will have trouble understanding why even the most menial of actions gets him such opulent responses.
(But for now, he has to watch Dokja slowly come to him, to trust him, as he thinks up everything that he'll do for him —to him, when they finally reach that point.)
When Dokja raises the wine glass to his lips, he takes a smaller gulp instead of tipping his head back and chugging the contents down. Maybe it's the queasy feeling beginning to settle in his stomach, washing away his appetite. He finishes the rest of the dumpling. People were inebriated when they drank, and just kind of floated around until they passed out, didn't they? He's seen his peers do that, so why can't he be the same?
He can't stop worrying over the party members. What if, after coming this far, they weren't able to clear the scenario? What if some of them died? An awful, dizzying feeling weighs down on Dokja's head at the thought, but it continues. It'll be his fault, for not taking all the possibilities into account, for not investing enough into probability to make it turn into their favour.
Would they hate him for it? For disappearing again and leaving them on their own? He really didn't mean to, slipping his feet into death and falling unconscious. This time, he'd tried his best to stay with his companions, to uphold his promise to not leave their side. He remembers Yoo Joonghyuk, the mix of worry-anger-desperation when he tried to reach out to grab him, and the unsettling feeling worsens.
How many times has he promised to not leave him alone after the scenario with the disconnected film theory? He promised to let Joonghyuk hit him in return for a foolish decision, ages ago, and realises desolately that it's another thing to add onto his growing list of broken promises.
It spirals, because he remembers that he'd told the company members—his family, that he'd take them to the end, take care of them. That wouldn't be possible if they lost even one of them, because they would never be whole again. What if that happens because he isn't there to stop it? What if it happens because he overestimated their capabilities? What if he didn't plan enough ahead for them and then something awful happened?
Dokja feels his throat close up, claws of despair sharp enough to break through skin. What if they never forgive him? He wouldn't blame them, but the thought of it hurts. They were the slightest semblance of what it felt like to belong, and maybe Dokja's gotten too used to it. He's scared of that outcome, of losing that feeling.
What if they hate him more because he ends up avoiding it? Would it hurt less to just sit on the sides and watch them pick themselves up again? They all lived through terrifying death in the first scenario, the only difference being that Dokja's been with them throughout most of it. But they already spent three years without him, and managed just fine, right? No losses, no deaths—but it's the final scenario. The last part would, theoretically, be the hardest, wouldn't it?
A new flavour of terror creeps up his spine when he realises that, although he's read about all the scenarios in ways of survival, he's never been able to do the same about the last one. The 999th Yoo Joonghyuk died before he got to escort his comrades to the final place of their suffering. He can't strategise something he doesn't know. In all the other rounds, Yoo Joonghyuk had mastered most of the scenarios, though the latter half had remained consistently tricky.
But this—this is something he doesn't even have an idea about. Dokja could be a returnee because he knew the outcomes and came to the calculated conclusion that it was safe, and that they were perfectly capable. His ridiculous amount of luck's managed to carry him this far, but what if it ends here? What if it was less strategic thinking, and more coincidence?
What if he wasn't actually tactful through the scenarios in the slightest?
What if the final scenario is just the evidence of that?
What if it's all his fault if they never make it?
What if—
"Kim Dokja."
He doesn't realise his vision's blurry until he looks up when Secretive Plotter calls his name, concerned. He doesn't register that he's crying until it drips off of his chin, right into his food—and then he starts laughing. A shakey, broken thing.
How pathetic.
Settling his food down, Dokja rubs his palm under his eyes, muttering out an, "Ah, really..." with something that tries to sound like a laugh. Like an embarrassing anecdote that he's trying to brush off with a bit of humour, and sniffles.
The familiar smile that Secretive Plotter hates with his entire being is etched on his face, wobbling at the edges. Dokja doesn't even look at him, head bowed for a moment before he takes a breath and with a firm grip, downs the contents of his glass. It almost cracks under his fingers.
(How uncanny, the way their similarities intertwine like fine threads in the fabric of this universe.)
Kim Dokja takes another dumpling, and nibbles at it depressingly. He's not sobbing, but his cheeks are wet and red and he looks so angry and upset—
Before he knows it, Secretive Plotter reaches out to wipe his face, cupping his cheek. Under his touch, Dokja freezes. The Plotter doesn't pull away—not before the other shows discomfort or turns away first. It feels like forever, but Dokja lets out a small, barely audible sigh, and relaxes— just the slightest, into the hold. So he doesn't hate being touched, Secretive Plotter muses to himself.
He'd initially thought the opposite, because even if it were the kids running up to him, Dokja would stiffen for a moment before wrapping his arms around them. He'd thought that it was a result of a neglectful childhood, void of most comforts children were accustomed to, leaning towards with ease as they grew up.
Thus, he doesn't expect it when a moment later, Dokja leans into his hand; cheek pressed into the dip of Secretive Plotter's palm.
Something faintly clicks into place, registering: touch-starved. Kim Dokja's looking for comfort. He didn't hate it because of his childhood, but it's because of his childhood that he actually wants it. In response to the revelation, the Plotter strokes his thumb over Dokja's cheek, and finds what he's looking for. The tense muscles in his shoulders loosened and go lax, even if only just by a fraction.
(He wants to push it to its breaking point.)
On the opposite seat, Kim Dokja wishes for the 4th wall to activate for the sole purpose of swallowing him whole again. He would much, much rather hide in an intangible library than suffer through this.
Dammit, this is why he hates drinking. It loosens him up, and undoes all the careful barriers he puts between himself and his thoughts and people (which are there for a reason ) until he's forced to digest his emotions. It's awful.
He doesn't like it, because he can't control it, and ends up putting his brain into overdrive—and then he's pulling out and dusting off the things he doesn't want to think about, and then thinks about it. Too much. And then, because he can't handle it, he starts crying. An awful, disgusting feeling that makes him feel like insects are crawling over him, and he's filled with the urge to run away and scrub himself raw to get rid of it.
Vulnerable. That's the word. A terrible thing. Dokja hates it.
It makes him dependent, because he knows he's too scattered to handle himself. It makes him feel exposed, like a book for anyone to flip his pages through, and it's terrifying. He isn't used to being outside the safety of controlling his brain and thoughts, much less being seen and read. It's terrifying, because the world blurs and he can't read people and places and moods with the easy clarity that comes with being sober; because everything's behind an indistinguishable filter of being drunk.
As if seeing clearly for all his life and one day waking up to the realisation that the most he can make out is blurry splotches of colour that bleed into one another. It makes his pulse pick up because he's so, so scared.
"I hate this." he mutters, voice cracking between syllables.
Softly, the Plotter asks, "Hate what?" smoothing a thumb over Dokja's cheek to wipe another pesky tear away. The answer could never be him, because such a thing had zero possibility when he was the person who made Dokja live.
Sniffling, Dokja replies. " Thinking. " he sounds so burdened. "I hate it—I can't make it stop. "
"Why?" It's sincere, curious—Secretive Plotter doesn't understand. He adores the way the other's always thinking, planning, studying. How could he despise it, when it's something so great? When it's something that's provided and created so many solutions to his problems, unique in its methods and fascinating to observe? The Plotter's eyebrows pull together when he can't make sense of it.
In return, Dokja gives him a frustrated look; at the man for not making sense of it, or at himself for not being able to do something, or at everything in general. He doesn't know. " Because —" he starts, and then hesitates, closing up again. He could put it into words, but then everything will jumble out and he'd be even more open.
(It feels like standing near the deepest end of the pool with no knowledge on how to swim, and nothing to keep him afloat.)
Gently, Secretive Plotter brings his other hand to Dokja's cheek as well, brushing away the drying tears and the hair from his face. He runs his thumb over the soft skin again and repeats, "Because?"
"What if this was all a mistake?—the final scenario," Dokja falters for a moment. "What if they can't cross the final scenario? Because of me?" he asks, pleads, as if the Plotter has the answers to his questions. Maybe he does; he's passed it, after all. In another world line. But even then, it was just him alone—all he had to lose was himself. Kim Dokja company, their family, however, had everything to lose.
(Because they are each other's everything.)
"The penalty for not clearing the scenario is death, y—" he catches himself before the name Yoo Joonghyuk slips off of his tongue.
"The penalty is death ," Dokja repeats instead, more to himself, raspy with realisation. Like a nail that'd been scratching his surface has finally been hammered into him. "They could die, because I wasn't—because of me. What if they need my help? What if I can't help?" like a dam bursting open, the thoughts flood out.
Secretive Plotter says nothing, does nothing. He just stays as he is, taking everything Dokja throws at him.
"What if I made a mistake before I left? What if it makes things go horribly?" Dokja rambles, eyebrows creasing, hands moving fervently, eyes shaking. "Gilyoungie's sponsor contract—what if it backfires on him?" he doesn't even register the hands slipping from his cheeks, just that he feels overwhelmingly cold.
(Like he's lost his footing and falls into the pool, breaks past the bone-chilling surface.)
"What if Yoo Sangah overexerts her body again, trying to fill the place I left? What if Yoosungie's only pretending to be fine? What if— "
"Kim Dokja." the Plotter intervenes, now standing next to him, grabbing ahold of his face and forcing the other to look at him. He holds the star's face with careful hands, but his touch and words remain firm.
A flushed face, crystal clear eyes, and tears that define his lashes—makes them shine. Defenseless. A lovely look, one that Secretive Plotter would appreciate another time; because he'll have Kim Dokja crying in his arms from something else. Something that wasn't soul-shattering loneliness, but rather from being overwhelmed from being so cherished and so wanted.
(So much so, that such meaningless doubts won't take seed in his head again.)
(He'll imprint it onto Dokja's skin, seal it with his lips. Until Kim Dokja knows the lengths that he'd go for him.)
But for today, he tucks that thought into the back of his mind and parts his lips to speak.
"You think too much." Dokja expects. "You got them to this point, so stop crying." maybe something along the lines of that. Or even the sharp, sour taste of lemon candy in his mouth. Or a frustrated yell of "You bastard!" Or an awkward, pitiful pat on the back.
Instead, Secretive Plotter runs his fingers through Dokja's hair and tells him, "You did well."
"What?" It sounds so distressed, as if he'd said the wrong thing. As if he was supposed to be adding onto the pain. As if they weren't words that the other should've heard from his companions from a long, long time ago. Dokja grabs Secretive Plotter's arms, fingers crumpling the shirt under his grip, eyes scanning his face desperately, as if he's looking for any signs that the Plotter might be lying.
He abhors that this is the reality Kim Dokja thinks he deserves.
Secretive Plotter tries to keep his voice steady and even, for a Kim Dokja who's stumbling, and says words that barely cover the tip of the iceberg of everything he wants to tell the incarnation. "They made it this far because of you." Not the other way around. "You and your sacrifices pushed them this far." More than they deserve.
Dokja pauses in perturbation, eyebrows twisting, but his tears flow. The Plotter lets them, keeping his hold on the other.
There's so much— too much, that Secretive Plotter wants to say. But, befitting the nature of the situation, he simply concludes, "It's human nature to make mistakes. But even with them, you managed to make the most ideal world-line," It's a shame that it wasn't mine.
Again, he brushes midnight strands away from Dokja's eyes—eyes that look like they hold the universe in them—and tilts his face up. "Everything, you did them well." Dokja's face scrunches up, like he's hearing something he doesn't want to. Or rather, something he's scared of knowing, because it's so alien.
Unfortunately for him, Secretive Plotter won't rest until his point is known. "And you will continue to do well, because that is who you are." No matter what you do, I will be proud of you. Dokja could fall into the depths of greed, and the Plotter's adoration would never waver. He would understand, how the man's resolve crumbled, and he would encourage it tenderly as the reparations for what Kim Dokja had gone through.
It settles in, a moment later, in his head. He sniffles, shoulders trembling, and the Plotter pulls him into his arms, so much of a parallel to the way that Dokja pulled him into his arms in the 1863rd round that feels so long ago. Dokja's fingers clench at his waistcoat, and he cries, face buried into the Secretive Plotter's chest. Heavy and tired and broken—but more than that, he's relieved.
(There's nothing to keep him afloat, but there's someone who'll catch him when he falls.)
The Plotter runs his fingers through the shorter strands of hair at Dokja's nape in slow, weighted movements, other hand firmly wrapped around Dokja, and lets him cry. A frown pulls at his features, slowly morphing into a scowl as he continues his ministrations. Just how long had Kim Dokja gone like this?
Constellations in the star stream could only watch what was shown, veiled by obliviousness when the channels block them out, or when the incarnations used midday tryst—an item that Kim Dokja seemed to use often. Mainly with Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk. They weren't particularly affectionate, but had they really not shown him that they cared—in a way that wasn't vague threats and frustrated huffs?
Paradoxically, both pride and resentment unfurl in Secretive Plotter's chest. Resentment that such people couldn't treasure Dokja the way he deserved to be—in a way that he understood. Because they all grieved when he was gone, but they could never showcase it when he was there—full of twists and turns and roundabouts in the sense that they could never be clear on how they felt.
He resents it with all his lifetimes and all his existence as much as he prides in being the (presumably, first and only) one to tell Dokja this. To be the one to catch his shards when he breaks, to be the one who's chest Dokja hides in when the world is too much, to be the one that Kim Dokja trusts enough to break in front of.
Him, and not a member of his company, but especially not Yoo Joonghyuk.
(After all, his story was the one that the reader chose. The first and only that he'd adored so.)
First and only has a nice, satisfactory chime to it.
And so, he'll hold onto it, and never let it go.
—— ❈ ——
When Kim Dokja wakes up the next morning, it's to a sudden, harsh ray of sunlight hitting him square in the face, curtains rattling. He scrunches his eyebrows, groaning around the dull throb in his head and cracks an eye open to glare at and find the cause of his misery. He'd been sleeping so soundly, so deeply, it feels insulting to do this when he clearly hasn't had his fill of it.
999's on the bed, hand on his hip and frowning at him.
Really, what a nice sight to wake up to, Dokja sourly thinks, taking in the kkoma's moody expression, and rubs his eyes—why were they so crusty? He tries to remember what he did the night before, but his headache worsens. So he considers it not worth the trouble, grabbing the soft, fluffy pillow he'd been peacefully snuggled into, and turning over onto his stomach, burying his aching head in its cool surface
999 slaps his shoulder. "Wake up."
Muffled, Dokja grumbles, complaining, "I'm in pain ."
The only response he gets is a gruff, "You brought this upon yourself." before his very warm, cozy duvet is cruelly ripped off of him. "Get up and eat. you drank too much."
Ah, so that was it . He could never really handle alcohol well.
When Dokja doesn't stir, 999 shakes his shoulders until he makes a wounded noise of protest, and pulls himself up into a sitting position, sending an upset look to the kkoma. Said kkoma remains unbothered, unsheathing his sword.
Dokja almost feels threatened until 999 hooks it through the handle of a mug, and he notices that there's a tray of food on the bedside table, a little moved when 999 sets the mug into his hands. He takes a sip, face twisting when instead of water, he's met with an almost electric taste.
Not the most pleasant when his brain feels like static.
"It's an elixir for your headache. Don't make faces." 999 chastises, moving to swat at Dokja's hands as he tries to wipe his mouth with it, handing him a napkin.
He accepts it, and the colour comes off, shimmering from purple to green like an opal. 999 gets the tray of food—hangover soup and a bowl of rice, into Dokja's lap and makes sure that he doesn't attempt to spit it out before hopping off of the bed to leave. He makes it to the door before looking back, and with an odd tone, tells him, "Don't run off to handle things alone again."
Dokja makes a confused face at him. Did he attempt to escape last night? He remembers the murderous aura from Secretive Plotter that one time, and puts it with the fact that he's still in one piece, so apparently not.
How strange.
—— ❈ ——
He didn't exactly consider bidding hello to a friendly outer god as 'running off to handle things alone' , but apparently the many kkoma's and their guardian did.
After that incident, which resulted in a few, minor injuries from the unnamed, untamed ones, (and an earful from the kkoma's—were they aware that their words hurt?) Kim Dokja's on house arrest.
At least, that's what he calls it, because when Secretive Plotter popped off the buttons of his shirt (hey, that was expensive ) to look at his wounds and grumbled about sneaking around alone, Dokja had to run his mouth and get himself the most murderous glare he's seen yet. He also has the sneaking suspicion that if he attempted that again, whatever part of his incarnation body that was intact would soon be ripped to shreds.
And that couldn't happen, because he had to heal quickly if he wanted to return back to his company. And having his body be ripped apart doesn't exactly count as that.
The kkoma's were as brutal as they were caring. Dokja could barely handle one Yoo Joonghyuk, so the thousands of chibi's were a little overwhelming.
Thus, he'd subjected himself to roaming the library for most of the time. It's remained largely unoccupied, containing biographies of all the inhabitants of this strange forest, and who would reread about themselves as such? Dokja knows that his insides shrivel up in woe whenever he ends up in the 4th wall's library and becomes reminded of the...more questionable moments, of his life.
Sometimes 999 would join him within N'gai's vast shelves to keep him company, or ask him if he was hungry. Since he's also a Yoo Joonghyuk, it's always with something vaguely condescending or insulting, but Dokja's a master of reading between the lines.
999 was the kindest out of them.
(Though, one time he pet the kkoma on the head and got threatened to have his hand sliced off. Very on brand, truly.)
(He doesn't miss the colour on the kkoma's cheeks or the way his eyes soften, though.)
He has no idea what Secretive Plotter even does in his grandiose throne room, other than watch live cams of the scenarios and occasionally throw money. And then exercise his superiority over—well, everything in the N'gai forest. particularly to the outer god with the tentacles that seemed to take an interest in Dokja, constantly waving a tendril, or sprouting horrifying-looking flowers at him, even from a distance.
He's not particularly upset about it, because at least someone will vouch that he is approachable and attractive, even if Dokja himself finds the... thing , off-putting.
He has no idea what vendetta the King, however, has against a law abiding citizen (did N'gai even have laws?) though, but he's admittedly thankful for the lack of grotesque courting gifts in his face.
(And for someone who doesn't do much besides cook and wield his sword, Secretive Plotter has a rather extensive library. Dokja would practically consider himself in heaven, if not for the constant worry about the company members.)
How were Yoosungie and Gilyoung-ah doing? What about his beloved biyoo? The rest of the adults, he wasn't particularly worried about; sure, Heewon and Dooyoung would probably be off somewhere plotting his murder right about now, but Jihye, Hyunsung, and Sangah were perfectly capable of survival, even without him.
His gaze catches onto a portrait of their King, round frame glittering dully under the dim light, and nibbles on the inside of his cheek.
How that bastard would be faring, Kim Dokja has no idea. He's a little worried that Yoo Joonghyuk might do something reckless to get back his companion (even though, in the demon world, he was so happy that he had to hide behind his hands because dammit, he was tearing up). He shakes his head, pulling a novel from the shelf, and wishes that his life and death companion would put a little bit of trust in him, at the very least.
(He was capable of taking care of himself, or he would not have made it this far on strategy alone. And it's beside yet another version of him, that Kim Dokja is healing from his injuries.)
(Though, considering his reaction to the 1863rd turn, he isn't quite sure just how much Yoo Joonghyuk would approve of it. Even if it were another version of himself.)
It's a little odd, idling around until his incarnation body healed without worrying over scenarios, even if the gears in his brain were constantly shifting. Odd, but not unwelcome. It's—nice, to not have to worry about the passage of time when he returns, to be thought of and looked after. Of course, his companions always worry about him too (despite him assuring them countless times and wishing that they wouldn't), but it's different without the urgency and the stress of the scenarios.
With how he'd been informed that time passes differently between the world-lines and N'gai, so he should take things leisurely because at most, all that's passed so far would just be a few hours.
And so, he settles into a chair; dark wood and plush cushioning that feels awfully homey, and opens it to the first page.
One of the reasons he's been occupying the vast library is because most of the books had to do with either the lore for ways of survival, or had Yoo Joonghyuk's history scattered across many, many volumes in order to preserve his memories. The kkoma's were individualistic personalities, and because of that, they too forget minor details. Then, they'd been tasked to pen down everything that they could remember, to revisit when those memories crumble, and resist erosion for as long as they can.
And so, the untouched library came to be.
Kim Dokja adores it.
(Not just because it's an easy substitute for his smartphone, but the untouched Ways of Survival that he grew up reading was here. No revisions. No editing. Something nostalgic and sweet; it really felt like home.)
The occasional group of kkoma's would trot in and out, now forced to actually dust and clean the place because for once, it was in use. Secretive Plotter would occasionally make use of the space and the stories, according to them, but he'd mostly just materialize whatever he needed into the throne room or his bedchambers.