Work Text:
Anteludium.
[ Constellation ‘Secretive Plotter’ tells you to put your phone away. ]
Kim Dokja turns on his side, effortlessly ignoring the indirect. His initial wariness towards the mighty presence had steadily dissipated as the latter’s identity became less enigmatic. Outer God or not, there is an inherent sense of trust that he wouldn’t truly be harmed, which Dokja convinces himself stems from anything but the likelihood that the other simply is— was —the Yoo Joonghyuk that he grew up adoring.
[ Constellation ‘Secretive Plotter’ demands you to go to bed this instant. ]
He takes his eyes off his screen at that. His signature annoying grin makes its way to the corners of his lips.
“Not only do you want to be my sponsor, but you’re also taking up the role of my babysitter?”
In his defense, he has gotten used to falling asleep from the scenarios exerting him to exhaustion on more days than not. It is one of the very few things he can feel appreciative about when it comes to the dokkaebis and the Star Stream. Restful slumber comes to him so quickly when he’s physically fatigued to his bones, when he has no energy to pay attention to the little voices in his head, or the occasional returns of unsavory memories that haunt him as nightmares.
On the other hand, the days in N’Gai Forest have been mostly uneventful. There isn’t anything to do when he is closely monitored by walking Joonghyuk-shaped cameras aside from waltzing aimlessly around the place and eating three decent meals a day. It leaves Kim Dokja with plenty of energy: more than enough for him to go on, even without the few minutes-long naps he takes between.
And apparently, for some reason, Secretive Plotter now decides that he has had enough with that.
Not that anything about his expressed disapproval means Kim Dokja will explain his sentiment and gain the Outer God’s understanding.
Sure, the Dokkaebi Bag is stocked up with items that help with sleep which Dokja sometimes turns to, but he doesn’t want the entity to have the impression that he’s easy to boss around with.
“I don’t sleep well in new environments,” he half-heartedly bullshits, attention turning back to the device in his hands, “If you want me to rest so badly, maybe consider returning me to where I was?”
Kim Dokja waits for the Outer God to call his blatant lies out, as the latter has been watching him from the beginning of the scenarios and, thus, is surely familiar with his sleeping habits out of all other things.
What comes next, however, has his hands so unsteady from shock that they drop his phone directly onto his face.
[ Constellation ‘Secretive Plotter’ assures that he knows another way to help remedy this condition. ]
LXXXI.
Dokja’s eyes dart between the warm cup in his hands and the man who has apparently de-kkomafied and left his holy domain of the kitchen to stand before him. He gives said man another once over, pretending not to see the piece of paper labeled “81” tucked behind the strap around his chest and digesting the fact that a Yoo Joonghyuk had gone all the way here just to deliver him a cup of tea.
“What is this?” he cautiously stares at the beautifully sunset-colored drink, “Is this poisoned?”
The corner of 81’s mouth twitches, appearing insulted. Choosing to refine cooking over swordsmanship in this regression seems to have impacted Joonghyuk’s character as much as his overall skills, because where Dokja expects a scathing remark comes nothing more than a mere sigh, “It’s chamomile.”
Everything comes to a brief pause as they stare each other down. 81 is considerably mellow for a Joonghyuk, but that doesn’t stop his expression from turning more like he wants to either strangle or pour the tea on the reader’s face.
“I cook your meals,” the chef turns away with furrowed brows and clicks his tongue, “I could have poisoned you ages ago if I want to.”
“You didn’t because you serve that food to the other kkomas, too—”
“Just shut up and drink the damn tea, Kim Dokja.”
So he does. A soft floral scent soothes Dokja’s nerves before his lips touch the teacup’s golden rim. Silky, light warmth accompanying the homely and gentle sweetness of apples and honey soon floods his taste buds, streams down his throat, and settles in his stomach. He then decides that 81 must have done something to it, not only because herbal tea shouldn’t taste so unimaginably good it should be an item in some fine dining restaurant, but also because the drink has left Dokja’s heart strangely, painfully filled.
It doesn’t make much sense, so when he meets 81’s dark eyes staring at him, shining with something dangerously close to expectancy, the words that fall from his tongue are, “Bastard, you definitely poisoned it.”
The weird mood dissipates as the taller male scowls and grumpily plucks the cup from Dokja’s hold. Kim Dokja flicks the bedside lamp off and flops back into the soft sheets, flashing the chef one of his trademark infuriating smiles when the other doesn’t immediately leave. He momentarily freezes when a hand reaches down to fix his blanket and lets out a yelp when said hand moves upwards to pinch his cheek right after.
“Hey, what the fuck —”
“You downed it in one go,” 81’s tone is light. Teasing. “From the looks of it, I’d say you were rather eager to be poisoned yourself.”
Dokja blinks, suddenly being hit with intense embarrassment as if he weren’t the one who started the banter.
“Fool,” the chef adds because, in the end, a Yoo Joonghyuk simply has to insult him directly. Dokja closes his eyes, succumbing to the darkness, and ignores the erratic thumping of his heart to pay attention to the leaving footsteps. The tea lingers so sweetly on the tip of his tongue.
He quietly mutters a thank when he thinks the man is already too far away to hear him speak. As the lights promptly go off and the door softly clicks as it opens, he feels a gaze precisely settles upon him. It is quiet yet intense, similar to the low baritone that follows,
“Goodnight, Kim Dokja.”
Dammit.
DCLXVI.
“I don’t want to be here.”
666 sits at the edge of the bed and glares dagger at Kim Dokja. The object of his rage merely shrugs. Dokja thought that the Yoo Joonghyuk back in his worldline is already prickly enough a man, and 666 somehow manages to be worse in the most hilarious ways possible.
Still, he believes the manifestation of whatever issues 666 has towards him are much cuter when he’s in his kkoma form. It’s hard not to take him seriously when the funny little protagonist is now a head taller than the reader, gorgeously well-sculpted, with his onyx orbs sharply piercing Dokja in a way that he is all too familiar with.
The Fourth Wall is silent, but he knows the sting in his chest might hurt worse with those words if it hasn’t been so dutifully doing its job.
“But you’re here anyways, and the Secretive Plotter might not be very happy if you just leave,” he says from under the covers, “What can he do to you anyway? Solitary confinement? Starvation? Wipe your existence out? Confiscate your right to take over the phone?”
Something about the way 666’s eyes narrow tells Dokja he hit the mark with the phone confiscation. N’Gai Forest starts to feel more like a nursery than an Outer God’s lair.
“Mind your own business.”
“Heh, don’t tell me that it already happened—Hey, give that back!”
How quickly the tables turn is unreal, but Dokja spares no time thinking further before he lunges at the sunfish thief from his cozy blanket fort. 666—bearing typical Yoo Joonghyuk physique regardless of all his childish displays—easily dodges the attack with a shit-eating grin, Dokja’s precious phone raised over his head.
Kim Dokja’s first attempt ends with him magnificently sprawling across the protagonist’s lap. The chance of him coming out victorious, even if he uses his skills without the fear of accidentally fucking his phone up, is incredibly slim. He grits his teeth in frustration, yet sits himself up and leans forward again anyway, determined to not back out without a fight despite the evident differences between their strength, speed, and height.
“Why,” the reader wheezes, offended at how easily 666 lets his sneak attack meets the air. Overpowered son of a bitch. “There’s, like, nothing for you to see there.”
“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble lending me your phone for a bit.”
“You’re not borrowing anything, you damn brute. You’re stealing .”
The thief rolls his eyes. Dokja isn’t blind enough to not notice how much entertainment 666 is getting out of messing with him, probably revenge for the last time he steals the latter’s phone. With some impressive effort and a lot of wasted time, he finally straddles on top of 666’s abdomen. Before he can even reach for the other’s outstretched arm, a force heavily weights down on his waist, firmly pinning him in his place.
“Give up.”
Figuring that any attempt to wiggle from the grasp will be futile, Kim Dokja simply lets exhaustion take over him and goes limp, dropping his head on the perpetrator’s firm chest and opting for verbal negotiations instead.
“Return me my phone.”
“I’ll give it back tomorrow.”
“I don’t trust you.”
666 laughs and loads him back into the bed. It is then that Dokja finally realizes how intimate their previous positions were. He ducks under the blanket, praying that the heat creeping up his ears is unnoticeable.
“As if you have a choice,” damn sunfish flicks his forehead, “Now sleep.”
CMXCIX.
Kim Dokja’s heart does a little flip. While he wondered with a touch of disappointment as to why it wasn’t him from the start, given how much time they spent together, he now thinks that it might be better if—
“You’re awfully quiet. Are you alright?”
999 has joined him in bed with a respectable distance between them. The gap is enough for them to be comfortable within their personal spaces, but not enough to stop Dokja from being overly conscious of the warmth radiating from his bedmate’s body. It’s a bit embarrassing that his senses are so dialed up after how often they’ve kept each other company, but it cannot be helped that he underestimated the difference between his favorite regression taking the form of an adorable kkoma and returning into a gorgeous man.
“I didn’t expect you to be up for chatting.”
“The others didn’t report you to be so cooperative,” 999’s voice rings softly in the dark, “I doubt that you would suddenly behave.”
Damn, they are really talking about him like some brat they are taking turns babysitting.
Dokja turns to face the eyepatched man, clutching a pillow closer to his chest and feeling as if he has pathetically lost his ability to speak. He can somehow sense 999 glancing back at him, quiet and calm, as if patiently waiting for another of his usual cheeky retorts. The room suddenly turns uncomfortably warmer, so the reader racks his brain for something to say.
“Let’s say I’m really misbehaving,” he cringes at how horribly wrong those words come out, “Fuck, no, ew, forget that. I’m just curious. How did you plan to deal with me?”
The silence doesn’t last long enough for Kim Dokja to start assuming the other is ignoring him. 999’s words come out as clear as crystal, syllables steady and articulated as if they have been carefully deliberated.
“I thought I would come up with another story to tell or read you something.”
Dokja’s lips unconsciously curl into a smile.
“Would it be about another wolf?”
“So you feel like misbehaving now?”
He’s pretty sure he’s dreaming at this point.
“No, what the—That’s not an answer to my question!” Dokja relaxes, snickering quietly at the unexpected response. For a moment, he thought he heard the other utter a low chuckle of his own. Scooting back just a bit for good measures, the reader buries half his face into the mattress, letting the lull of the comforting silence lingers tenderly in the air.
Kim Dokja thinks that if he is indeed dreaming, maybe he can ask for this much.
“You know, I wouldn’t mind hearing about another wolf.”
“Now you talk too much.”
“I don’t. And I thought we’re having a moment here.”
The idle conversation works wonders because Dokja has to stifle a yawn. Or maybe it’s just 999’s presence being comforting on its own.
“So do you want to or not.”
“You don’t have to,” being lightheaded on sleepiness means his thoughts-to-mouth filter becomes terribly porous. As he battles to keep his eyes open, Dokja’s right hand touches something calloused, scarred, and protectively warm. It doesn’t pull away, so Dokja doesn’t, either. “But I know I’ll like anything you tell me.”
His breathing settles into a slow rhythm. His fingers are carefully held and caressed. The tranquility and indulgence behind it all send the reader to his dreamland. Before his consciousness completely dims, he catches a whisper—a promise.
“Next time, then.”
XLI.
666 was one thing, but Kim Dokja cannot wrap his mind around what the Secretive Plotter has used to bribe or threaten Yoo Joonghyuk of the 41st regression to be here. What should be a comfy bedroom now more closely resembles a freezer with the expressionless captain folding his legs on a nearby chair and staring into Dokja’s bed with his cold, dead eyes. His spear is propped by the wall, meticulously playing its role as an inanimate threat.
He has spent a fair share of nights with multiple Joonghyuk’s—most of them have been pleasant enough to at least indulge him with mindless conversations—but this is the first time Dokja genuinely feels like he has no other choice but to play dead or die for real. 41 doesn’t look like he believes in coaxing or any other civil form of persuasion.
41 has been pointedly ignoring him whenever they run into each other, not sparing him so much as a glance. The reader isn’t upset, being fully aware of where his place should be, but it doesn’t mean he’s not curious about whether this man will really stab him to sleep. Then again, he isn’t masochistic enough to actively find the answer, so when the protagonist stands up and grabs his weapon, he squeezes his eyes shut.
“Follow me if you want to,” comes the impassive assertion instead of anything within Dokja’s assumptions. It is all it takes for him to immediately scrambles off the bed.
His heart unsteadily thumps with every turn they take. It feels like forever, and he cannot decide if it is more fear or excitement that fills the pit of his stomach. 41 decisively leads him without an explanation, almost like he cannot care less whether the reader is following him or not. If Kim Dokja notices the protagonist waiting for him to catch up at the corners, he doesn’t comment anything on it.
They reach the outside when 41 abruptly stops, causing Dokja to promptly crashes into his toned back. He is given a dry look before a hand firmly grabs his shoulder, sending him stumbling backward and ass-first onto the ground. Just as he instinctively opens his mouth to complain about the unnecessarily rough treatment, a wisp of cold air tussles his hair, and something dark lands heavily over his head. It takes Dokja a second to recognize the object as a coat—41’s coat.
Kim Dokja glances at the quiet man standing tall by his side in confusion before following his gaze upwards. His eyes then widen.
Truly breathtaking.
It is ironic how beautifully the object of their hatred illuminates the vast canvas of darkness. The reader never finds within him a reason to enjoy such a view, but at this moment, when they are by themselves in a place where the Constellations’ and Dokkaebis’ gazes do not reach, where there are no such things as scenarios, the Star Stream is simply a scenery exceedingly more ethereal and less lonely than Earth’s pre-apocalyptic night sky ever is in Dokja’s memory. It doesn’t feel right to appreciate their common enemy the way he is, yet with the wind rustling against the foliage surrounding them, with the feeling of damp soil under his hand, with 41 sitting next to him and silently fixing the coat over his shoulders…
Dokja turns to the man,
“Do you really not mind this?”
The so-called coldhearted captain’s silence speaks volumes, especially when he doesn’t stop the reader, all smiling and starry-eyed, from leaning closer to his side.
MDCCCLXIII.
At some point, it becomes a thing. A habit. Kim Dokja has stopped keeping track, likely from that one time he woke up to 111’s dark wing warming him in place of the blanket that he kicked to the floor at some point. It isn’t like him to indulge in… whatever those have been, but when it occurs to him that it is a one-of-a-lifetime thing until he returns to his worldline, he grows greedy and accepts any kindness they are willing to give.
(He broods over being selfish every other time of the day and steels himself to chase them out. When the next one arrives at his door, however, he ends up talking himself out of guilt by internally repeating that it has been the Secretive Plotter who set them up. The Fourth Wall has the time of its life insulting his intelligence.)
The man behind it all has the audacity to come today, taking the form of Yoo Joonghyuk in white and making Dokja’s heart painfully lurches in his chest. The reader’s eyes unconsciously follow how the Secretive Plotter slowly takes off his coat and hangs it on the hanger nearby, pulling the dark vest from his shoulders before meticulously tugging his tie off, all while looking like he’s putting on a show. He doesn’t take his gaze away quick enough when the Outer God sits on the bed and turns to look at him. Heterochromatic eyes bore into his soul so intensely that Kim Dokja nervously gulps.
“Kim Dokja.”
“...Good evening.”
He doesn’t know what he has been expecting, but Dokja almost rolls off the bed in surprise when Secretive Plotter does nothing but duck under the covers next to him. He watches in awe and horror how the Outer God, clad in a thin white half-unbuttoned shirt and black pants, covers his eyes with his forearm, genuinely looking like he’s here to sleep. Fuck, do Outer Gods need sleep, too?
The vulnerable display sends a surge of courage through him, and the reader props himself up on his elbows and dares to approach the seemingly tired beast. No malicious intentions can be felt, and Dokja still has his guards on, but he lies back down on his stomach. A thought breeze through his mind—if he’s quiet enough, maybe he can catch the rhythm of the outer being’s breath and beating heart, given they exist in the first place. Following an unexplainable urge, he lightly touches the Plotter’s disheveled hair.
“Kim Dokja.”
A warning this time, judging by the intonation, but it’s quiet. Tired, even. Something fluffy and warm fills the reader’s chest at the way the familiar silky baritone calls his name.
“Has this been your goal from the very start?” Dokja asks with a smile, threading his fingers into the unexpectedly soft locks, “Were the others to test the waters? Was the Great Plotter embarrassed? I didn’t know that you could be so adorable—”
He barely gets the chance to chuckle out loud when the former protagonist glares at him with a low, displeased grunt before a strong arm encircles his waist. The embrace he is pulled into is loose enough for him to easily shrug out of, which Kim Dokja considers doing for a hot second before deciding otherwise. He then feels the other resting his chin on the top of his head as the hold around him grows tighter, presumably encouraged by the lack of resistance. Dokja shifts into a more comfortable position, almost shoving his face into the heavenly sturdy pecs.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump,... slowly it goes. The fingertips brushing the hair off his forehead are kind. The breath descending on his nose when he peers up feels like a winter breeze. Dokja doesn’t have the mind to ponder nor ask whether these signs of life are merely the product of Probability.
He catches a flutter of melancholy in half-open golden and dark orbs alike. He thinks he can feel the scar on the side of Secretive Plotter’s face has imprinted itself on the most fragile portion of his heart.
In Aeternum.
The unending stretch of worldlines and the deafening silence of the subway still manage to permeate Kim Dokja’s dreams. He thus finds himself jolting up when it is still dark outside in cold sweat with a pounding headache and a numbing gap in his chest.
It takes a good while for his nervous system to start functioning again. Dokja closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Fills his lungs with cold AC air until he’s full and in pain. The emptiness will return, he knows, but for now, that much is enough.
The distinctive smell of disinfectant reminds him that he is now hooked up to an IV filled with stories in a hospital room instead of stuck in eternal solitary within the confinements of a train carriage. The covers he has unconsciously clenched his fists around are nowhere as firm as the subway cushioned seat, but soft and thick enough to prevent his untrimmed nails from digging into his palm. He is then reminded of the cotton patient uniform on him, light and loose, unlike a certain white coat, threatening to slip over his thin shoulders.
On the bedside table stands a vase of sunflowers thoroughly cared for, a snack basket already half-empty, a stack of paperback novels with sticky notes on their covers, and some handmade get-well-soon cards done with heartwarming clumsiness.
I’m back.
Dokja looks down at his hands, which, he notices, have grown closer to how they used to be a long time ago. Visible evidence of recovery works wonders as the final touch to the picture, and he tentatively concludes yes, this is more than another deceptively sweet dream. The lump in his throat melts away. Breathing becomes a lot easier. The heat of elation renders him lightheaded before pleasantly rushing through his veins.
Dokja thought he had already cried more than he could for his life on the subway, but alas, uncontained relief and joy still ended up condensing into moisture at the corners of his eyes.
Faint footsteps following a brief rustle within darkness have him momentarily freeze when he hastily attempts to rub his tears away. The presence looming over him would be anything but comforting for anyone else.
“Did I wake you up?” Kim Dokja quietly asks, obliging calloused fingers tipping his chin upwards and lowering his eyes as a thumb wipes away the lacrymal trail on his left cheek. Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression is indiscernible in the dark and the non-committal hum sounds nothing like an answer, but Dokja thinks he understands.
The former regressor stays cradling his companion’s face even after confirming that the tears have dried up, “Would you like to talk about it?”
Dokja smiles, taking Joonghyuk’s hand in his. He slots their fingers together, heart doing a little jump when the latter gives him a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s really nothing out of the usual,” the mattress shifts as his protagonist sits down next to him on the bed, “Maybe later?”
Neither of them is keen on letting the other go just yet, so they end up somehow squeezing together on the hospital bed way too small to accommodate two grown men. It’s naturally uncomfortable (Dokja momentarily misses the dark-covered round bed in N’Gai Forest), but who is he to complain when his back practically sinks into the familiar warmth from his most beloved with a protective arm wrapped securely around him.
“Would Seolhwa-ssi mind if we request an upgrade to a bigger bed?”
“Fool,” the insult has no bite to it, especially as Yoo Joonghyuk nuzzles into the nape of his neck and presses a kiss there. Dokja turns around to face him and is greeted with another one falling upon his lips, chaste and sweet. Obsidian eyes stare into him, indescribably fond. He buries his face into the other’s sturdy chest, unable to stop himself from grinning like an idiot.
“Why ask for a bigger hospital bed,” Joonghyuk’s tone remains neutral from above him, “When we already have one at home.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to share a bedroom, Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi.”
“Do you think you have a choice?”
Overflowing affection lulls Dokja back on his path to dreamland. Featherlike touches on his hair and the back of his neck promise him a restful slumber to come.
“I guess I don’t,” he stifles a yawn, wrapping an arm and a leg around his lover like a clingy koala, “Bastard, you should be thankful that I’m so agreeable—”
“Sleep, Kim Dokja.”
Feels like home.
“You too. Goodnight, Joonghyuk-ah.”