Secretive Plotter hates white. Has hated it ever since before the scenarios began, but even more so after they did. Has hated it ever since he was still Yoo Joonghyuk.
It stains and gets dirty far, far quicker than any other hue. A plain hassle to clean. And even if they were past the accidents, the murders, the sacrifices—the stains remained. On Jihye's shirt, years after having to kill her friend. On Seolhwa's coat. On Hyunsung's pants. On Namwoon's shoes.
The substances itself washed out, but the colours left their mark; a less-than-glorious, permanent reminder of what went wrong, what was lost, every single time it's glanced at. And they pile up; newer ones over the old, overlapping again and again until the actual shade underneath becomes forgotten.
(The very same way that the person underneath gets forgotten, marred by the scenarios; ripped apart and born anew so many times in that vicious cycle, that he looks into his hands, into his face in the mirror, and wonders if he knows the reflection staring back at him.)
On darker clothes, it's harder to see, harder to remember. Less of a hassle to clean up, with the fabrics already murky. So, he'd donned the deepest tones he could find and went on. Poisons and blood sunk into the materials, and had been washed out all the same. Some parts of it might've clung still, but it's impossible to see when it so easily conceals and merges with the existing colour—a shade so dark and divine that it hides all the fabric's cruel secrets; that it'd been because of killing, because of mercilessness, because of apathy.
(Because, ultimately, there had been no other way.)
(And what could be more divine, than the sacrifice of another in order to pray for salvation; for an end?)
Yoo Joonghyuk and the Secretive Plotter could stow away endless regrets, endless failures, and endless desires intertwining together like leathery vines to form the skeleton of who they were, in those very dark clothes.
But when stains appear on something bright and pure—it's evident that something's wrong, that something happened; when the purity is stripped away, and an incriminating trail of evidence follows. When juice spills on uniforms, ink drips on paper, mud soils pristine socks.
When blood colours Kim Dokja's coat, and it's almost always his own. When it rolls off of the fabric, it drips onto Dokja's skin; pools there, under him, sticky and clinging to him.
Staining him.
Secretive Plotter hates it. And he knows that Yoo Joonghyuk hates it as well, so he purchases the very same coat—the one Kim Dokja wears, out of nothing but pure spite. It's sturdy, unbreakable, and stainless. Even if it's wearer wasn't.
But it's still the same colour that he abhors, at the end of the day.
The plotter loathes the coat hanging in his wardrobe, but he hates the one hugging Kim Dokja's figure even more.
Something white, something from the 1864th world-line.
Things that he doesn't like, things that aren't his.
N'gai's weather doesn't suit Dokja's infinity dimension coat, so it stays folded in his dresser. Without it, he's covered in black; a loose shirt that pools against the lines of his body, fitted slacks that crop above his ankles, and a pair of loafers that contrast so heavily, so stunningly, against every sliver of his pale skin.
Still, they belong in another world-line, so though he adores the way the colour falls on Dokja's body, Secretive Plotter would much rather have Dokja in something else.
Something of his—from N'gai Forest, and something unattainable in Yoo Joonghyuk's world-line.
(And then when he achieves that particular goal, perhaps he'll burn Kim Dokja's old clothes into ashes.)
—— ❈ ——
The thought that Kim Dokja would try to leave (because even if he doesn't, he thinks about it, considers it— wants it) serves to be a constant irritance. He had obediently agreed to stay until his incarnation body healed, yes, but after that? Secretive Plotter doesn't think that it's possible for him to just let Kim Dokja go .
(Not when it took so much effort, so much planning, to simply have him in this way.)
But because it's Kim Dokja, he'll try to find a way out. The same way he slipped out of his window to go mingle with the outer gods—and got himself trapped. Would have stayed trapped if the kkoma's hadn't alerted him and got him to intervene. He hadn't been pleased, and made sure that the star knew as much. From how sheepishly he remained quiet afterwards, it appears he did.
Secretive Plotter dearly wishes Kim Dokja would realise that he couldn't have certain things because they were dangerous for him. Silly human, he wants to chide, you bear no clue as to how much it will hurt. The probability retained within the nameless ones were still far superior to those of the average constellation; humans easily went mad from exposure to their status', and though the man has a piece of the final wall in his acquisition, it can only resist so much for him.
(He isn't particularly fond of seeing the star shatter into fragments—from violence, from someone else, that is.)
(Alone with the plotter is an entirely different story, however. He has plenty of plans to break down that facade full of bravado; until nothing but an open, begging mess remains. And when Kim Dokja's stripped bare of all his wit and his walls, Secretive Plotter would pull him together again with the gentlest of kisses and the warmest of embraces.)
(Because he is, to Kim Dokja, everything that Yoo Joonghyuk's oddities could never fulfill.)
His mind wanders to that particular intervention with the outer gods—Kim Dokja's first escape attempt. He'd let it slide, because he hadn't explicitly stated and made it clear to Dokja that he wasn't allowed to explore the gardens beyond castle walls, mingling with the other citizens of this forest; just that the world-lines were out of question. An infinitesimal mistake; the slightest error in calculations. But because equations require such precision, he'd have to make sure that such blunder doesn't occur again.
Books weren't able to make Kim Dokja stay in one spot. Neither was food, nor the company of the kkoma's, of the beings that put together the fragments of a broken child and gave his lost soul some place to call home.
Secretive Plotter's eyebrows narrow in thought, in displeasure, wondering what had the power to keep Kim Dokja in place (something other than the slightest flash of his status, because he finds it distasteful to keep him there by force ).
His plan requires Kim Dokja willingly handing his resolve over (and coaxing him to that point so smoothly, so naturally, that it can't be distinguished at what point they merged.)
And then he thinks back to those things, forcing his Dokja in place—
He pauses in thought. Of course.
When the outer gods managed to wrap their tentacles and other appendages around him, Kim Dokja wouldn't move— couldn't move, not without heavy strain, heavy injury to himself (or the outer gods, but the Plotter's priorities consist of Kim Dokja and Kim Dokja only ). He had no other option besides to stay still, accepting that he wouldn't be able to match their power. Whether from the injuries to his incarnation body, or the energy he was conserving for his world-line, Kim Dokja had no choice but to obey.
(There's also the knowledge that Kim Dokja wouldn't dare try to fight the fragments of the story he loves so dearly.)
(And perhaps, that is also what makes the Plotter hesitate in using them against him.)
Would he be able to activate his Demon King transformation? Secretive Plotter raises a hand to his chin in thought, fingers curling. He hadn't quite hosted such a being in the forest before, so the answer remains a mystery, even to him, but—the thought sparks something in him. Excitement, perhaps; the type that shifts the thoughts in his brain like curious branches, licking at his nerves as if flecks of amber, and bristling in his fingers. It makes his pulse thrum under his skin, the very way it does when he's solivagantly against a new breed of monsters.
A test of survival, of endurance; a competition with an obvious winner, but makes him work for victory in the sense that he has to figure out what makes it cave, what makes it give in.
As if Kim Dokja is the new scenario he has to conquer, with the only reward being Kim Dokja himself.
(Because to someone like him, the fail conditions didn't exist. Failure itself, it wasn't something he was capable of.)
The corners of Secretive Plotter's lips curl upwards in anticipation.
A fairly easy feat, in terms of power. The only question was how.
Dokja was docile when he had no other choice, letting tendrils wrap around him tightly— too tightly for the Plotter's taste. They'd left bruises on his slim wrists, his shoulders, up his legs, wherever they could reach. And Dokja had let it happen. Because he knew they weren't malicious. Because he knew, that he was too decrepit against them, weak hearted in the face of his beloved story.
Secretive Plotter loosely ponders if he would be able to do the same. Even if the man activated his Demon King transformation, would he let the Plotter rope him into place if he knew that it wasn't because he wanted to torture Dokja?
Tied wings wouldn't be able to fly away, after all.
(Even if a lush palace of gold vines and extravagant riches brimmed with everything the man could ever want, imprisonment was imprisonment.)
––Pets could obediently sit in their cages if they were pampered and given proper attention, liked their beloved owner enough, couldn't they?
It would make Kim Dokja stay in place, at the very least; devoid of any other option. Secretive Plotter wouldn't keep his hold tight; loose enough to let Dokja move around. The Plotter isn't too keen on letting his poor star be uncomfortable and cramped, of all things. If anything, it should lure him into a false security of freedom—loose enough to tease, to tempt, but never enough to truly escape.
The thought of using his status sounds meagrely boring, regardless of the way it made Dokja tremble. Something more tangible, not exactly rough like rope— silk, maybe. Soft, luxurious, a sweet river against skin. It gave away and untied easier than something more fibrous like cotton, but.
Surely, he just needs to train Dokja to be good, stay still, don't let it fall undone.
Dokja, Dokja, Kim Dokja.
Slim calves, held tightly by tendrils. Lithe wrists, bound by thick ribbons, with the ends in the Plotter's own grasp; to tighten and loosen however he pleases. Not quite a marionette for him to position and force to move—certainly not, because Kim Dokja would sweetly give himself up to Secretive Plotter rather than allow himself to simply be taken against his will—but a doll all the same.
Thighs to his calves, knotted to keep him on his knees, open like a present with his wrists to his ankles. Now that is a sight that the Plotter would never tire to see. How ravishing it'd be, especially when Kim Dokja's face scrunches into a defensive frown, snarling, ready to do whatever it takes to escape his bindings and fight.
…What a precious sight, that'd make.
Even more so when his attitude crumbles with enough pressure, caving in to embarrassment. How cute, when he'd realise he's unable to shy away and hide his face behind his bound hands. If he were able to use his transformation, would he summon those silk-soft wings of his, to curve over his frame and canopy him, shielding him from Secretive Plotter's ravenous gaze?
Of course, the Plotter would have none of that. He ponders on those magnificent wings; thick and luxurious, and wonders if he could tie them to Dokja's arms all the same—it paints a lovely visage; the pale white of his skin, the dark midnight of his wings, all tied together with the same colour of a drink he's been rather impartial to.
(Before, he would have repulsed at the thought of white and black accompanied by red. Now, a heady craving sets in in its place, because there's few things he would ever desire to see more .)
(And then, like a present, all he'd have to do is tug at the ends—and everything would come undone in his palms, caught in his sturdy fingers.)
(Because Kim Dokja is a one-of-a-kind work of art displayed with the finest of decorum; so unique and untouchable that everyone yearns, but only one can have.)
(And, like commissioned work, he's crafted to only fit perfectly with that one person.)
(And that one person is him.)
—— ❈ ——
Kim Dokja doesn't even look at Secretive Plotter until two days later, when they're having lunch.
He's quite hurt by that—wounded, in some cavity of his chest, hollow beneath his ribs. He'd caught his shooting star, made his wish, and the stardust slipped between the cracks of his fingers before he could be done praying. What a cruel fate, to lift the residue on his fingertips for a kiss, and have that, too, fade.
Perhaps it had been too much, for a first kiss. For the man's first kiss, his first act of intimacy, with another. And perhaps that, too, is nothing but the Plotter's own fault.
He laments over it a bit, in the absence of Kim Dokja, thoughts averting to consider that he lay gentler hands on the man, with more chaste kisses on his skin rather than attempt to engrave his own fingerprints on every available crevice of his body. They quickly revert to the latter, to how deeply he wants to carve himself within his fallen star, mark him inside and out in ways that no one could possibly mistaken him for another's.
(The outer gods had already begun to take note of his scent on Kim Dokja, warding off the sensible inhabitants of his domain.)
(He just needs to… saturate his claim, so to speak.)
The ways that he keeps his tabs on Dokja include brief intermissions to idly trace his movements through the private channel display, others include information from the kkoma's, and it's becoming terribly endearing for him to hear.
Kim Dokja remained buried under his sheets for the duration, from what 999 tells him. Embarrassed beyond reach, and flustering hopelessly whenever any kkoma would talk to him, to the point that 999 had fallen into the assumption that Dokja had become ill through an outer god's slow poison.
Only for their guest to—even more humiliated—reveal that no, their voices simply reminded him of something that happened.
Of a tongue on his, a voice murmuring into the skin below his ear, goes unsaid; only for the Plotter to understand.
81 had been lecturing him on the myriads of ways in how to properly fold dumplings, of all things, when it'd happened, with Kim Dokja deemed responsible enough to be allowed inside the kitchens. The moment the kkoma opened his mouth, the poor boy slouched in his seat, a burning mess, folding in on himself and pushing away 999's attempts to check on him with a weakly voiced I'm fine. With enough wrestling, 999 was able to catch a note of how rapidly Dokja's pulse was going, and that was enough for the Plotter to string two and two together, humoured eyes crinkling at his little display; where said star could be seen writhing in his blanket cocoon, attempting to kick 666 off of his bed with more muffled insistences.
All of their attempts bear no fruit until a few days later, when Secretive Plotter decides that it is enough, and clears his schedule in order to have a meal with the avoidant man.
The avoidant man, who would have no choice but to comply, because he doesn't have anything to do besides eating, reading, showering, or sleeping. Rinse and repeat.
It would also be rather rude to deny his host an audience, when he's a helpless guest, no?
And so, they meet.
The menu consists of red wine steak and sautéed vegetables. Dokja glances at it, highly doubting that it's beef, the meat likely belonging to some poor monster—or maybe, it's conjured from the Plotter's own power, borne from nothingness? Either way, it's delicious. Fittingly regal for where he is, who he's dining with, but also homey in the sense that he doesn't feel displaced or foreign.
Instead, it's warm and reminiscent of the character he grew up loving so much.
Perhaps it's similar to how a home cooked meal would differ tremendously from food that's been bought at a commercial chain, regardless of the fact that the same ingredients had been used to make both.
Despite it all, the feeling settling low in his chest, warming him inside out like all the hot chocolate he would drink as a child…there's a quiet fear reverberating through him; one that says it's too good to be true. He doesn't know why he's being lavished, treated this way. Maybe Secretive Plotter wants to use him as a pawn on his chessboard, to strike and break down the Star Stream.
It wouldn't be far fetched, Dokja's a constellation, and both the Yoo Joonghyuk he knows and Secretive plotter despise his kind, the ones watching this tragedy for fun, for sustenance. A system that'd damned their existence and forced them to be characters of a never-ending loop of tragedy, a system he contributed to, a system he could end.
He bears a fragment of the final wall. He could help. It's plausible.
(It's just mildly concerning, how rarely he's been able to contact that brat.)
(There's no assurance that it wasn't stolen from his sleep, either, but his heart, the fragile thing, pleads him to believe that the Yoo Joonghyuk he knows so deeply would never.)
(Blind trust is a dangerous thing, he knows—but if he can't trust Yoo Joonghyuk, is there anyone he can trust?)
But still, the tug of nausea makes him hesitate. Here he is, being treated so well that the tenderness becomes unsettling. He takes a bite out of what he assumes are carrots, sweet and soft, and puts the silverware down. It reflects an ominous sheen. He asks the plotter, voice quiet but not wavering in its firmness, "…Why are you doing all this?"
The thought of being adored—truly, wholly —is unfamiliar, new. It unearths a terror he hadn't known before, in that he doesn't want to get used to it; what if it all turns out to be something else? What if he wants more? More that he can't get enough of, more that he would feel clumsy to live without.
Greed is a dangerous thing, as well. All-consuming from within, addicting.
He can't remember the last time he was treated this way— if he was treated this way; home life before solitude and loneliness is a particularly blurry thing, uncomfortable and suffocating. He's glad for it to be hidden under his memories. But this —he's scared of what'll happen if he gets a taste and ends up liking it, wanting it, too much.
But because something that tastes like desperation, like panic, crawls up his spine, he urges,
"Why is it me?"
Secretive Plotter looks at him thoughtfully, and deflects his question in such a way so true to his character that it's frustrating; never a concise answer, just more riddles for him to solve.
"Why do you love Yoo Joonghyuk?"
He doesn't sound upset or petty; merely patient, contemplative in the way he looks at Kim Dokja. Because he's waited for him for so long, he could wait for him a little longer; he needs Dokja to realise, before he's ravished, the weight of the way Secretive Plotter looks at him isn't just some baseless, shallow, human-level lust.
Kim Dokja wasn't something that he could just have and let go, bond running far deeper than the meaningless nights people would spend together. It wasn't the pitiful, petty love that Yoo Joonghyuk felt, either, endlessly longing and yearning. Secretive Plotter adored Kim Dokja in ways that no author could put into words, wanting beyond need, beyond expressions that could be described. For that alone, he wouldn't just let the man get away.
(Because Yoo Joonghyuk loved Kim Dokja, he lets him go. Because Secretive Plotter desires far beyond such moral, mortal emotions, he's determined not to let Kim Dokja go.)
Kim Dokja looks at him, as if trying to figure out a hidden meaning to his words—whether or not it was a trick question. As if it was a trap under his feet, and his next action would determine whether he makes it out alive. The Plotter wishes dearly for Kim Dokja to come to know that he could burn down the whole world, and Secretive Plotter would still look at him with as much reverence. There is no need to walk on eggshells.
Dokja looks back down at his food, and then to the grand window panels at their side, where the sunlight warmly shines in. Secretive Plotter raises his glass to his lips and watches as Dokja bites his own, worrying it between his teeth in thought. Averting his gaze back to his food, the Plotter takes a piece of his steak into his mouth, crossing his ankles as his companion for the day—and for all of eternity—reflects deeply on the question.
The initial anxiety dissipates after a few moments, and Dokja begins to think intently on the question; evident in the slight furrow of his brows, gaze far away in his thoughts.
It's something that pleases Secretive Plotter, makes him prideful, even, regardless of how time consuming the answer might eventually become. Because he knows that his lovely reader wouldn't just walk the conventional path to answer quickly; something about handsomeness, dependability, his status—all things he's heard from his admirers, for the character he portrayed, for the role he played. Not for the person underneath that, between the lines, that he was.
(Strip Yoo Joonghyuk of the scenarios and burning need for survival, and what remains?)
(What would he do afterwards, in a world that no longer required him?)
(The small garden of snow between each dark, pixelated character on the screen was always minuscule, only enough for the fragments of a small, broken child to fit in and find out.)
(And that child grew to understand his heart as if it were his own.)
After a while, Kim Dokja speaks up.
"Yoo Joonghyuk...was always tenacious."
In concealed curiosity—because he's heard this cheeky incarnation whine to his other companions, calling Yoo Joonghyuk a rock-brained brute who doesn't know how to do anything other than clear the scenarios and kill, he's a little curious on the more intimate, private thoughts that Dokja has reserved just for his ears to hear—Secretive Plotter meets Kim Dokja's eyes, and they sparkle like an endless night sky. He raises an eyebrow for the latter to continue, setting the silverware on the plate; giving the man his full, undivided attention.
(Because he doesn't deserve anything less.)
Dokja doesn't waver, and there's a soft warmth to his features when he talks. "No matter how hard things got...Yoo Joonghyuk always found hope." the corners of his lips, soft and red from being chewed on, tilt upwards.
"He's more idealistic than realistic, and used that to fight against his depression. Because there's always something new to try out—to make the next turn better. He's always revising those stupid plans." A look of remembrance glazes over his eyes, dripping with admiration. "No matter what he lost, he always took it as his driving force so that it wouldn't repeat the next time he faced something difficult. But it never meant that he forgot about those things, they're very dear to him."
"That's why he chose to regress at every opportunity. He comes off as a cocky bastard who believes he can replace people, but," Dokja pauses for a moment, as if remembering a particular passage from the novel and looks wryly humoured, and continues, "For his companions, he would do anything."
Finally, he looks at Secretive Plotter, who has his fingers laced together with his elbows on the table, and says, "And...the Yoo Joonghyuk from my novel, isn't the Yoo Joonghyuk who is my companion." his expression stays neutral, because he's not going to pick sides—not yet, anyway.
(But he'll get there, Secretive Plotter will ensure it.)
The words slip past Kim Dokja's lips with almost alarming clarity.
"The Yoo Joonghyuk who the novel ended with, is you."
"The Yoo Joonghyuk who is my companion, from the 1864th world-line, is an extension of the novel." realising how the words he said might come off, he hastily adds, "He's still Yoo Joonghyuk, of course, but—"
You're the one I fell in love with.
A look that Secretive Plotter witnessed in the tenth scenario flashes across Dokja's eyes; loving and so deep that it could be considered limitless with the weight of it—but never heavy. Never burdensome. He doesn't think that Dokja's even aware of it.
The man in question averts his gaze again, carefully considering his words. "The 1863 regression turns I read about throughout my life for comfort..." he looks back up at Secretive Plotter, and a part of the careful barrier that he's put up must've chipped away, because an unusual sincerity is there on him Dokja's face. "You're the evidence of that story."
The Yoo Joonghyuk I know is diverting from the original plot.
Another piece cracks off, "So, thank you." Dokja sounds almost fragile, voice uncharacteristically soft. The sincerest way he could bare his heart open, to the one it belongs to.
You're the Yoo Joonghyuk I fell in love with. Before him.
Secretive Plotter smiles, slow. It curls behind his clasped hands.
"Then," he speaks up, calculated, "My reasons are the same." he says, frank and to the point.
(But not any less sincere; not any less adoring.)
Kim Dokja looks at him like he's grown a second head, bewildered and so painfully unaware. As if the Plotter's speaking in riddles again. As if Dokja wasn't to his companions, the same hope that Yoo Joonghyuk of ways of survival was to Kim Dokja of Earth. Secretive Plotter reaches for his silverware to resume eating, and smiles at the confused man, as gentle as an ocean.
(Calm and smooth on the surface, glimmering in the way it hides its endless horrors.)
No worries, he wouldn't have any troubles in instilling his words into Kim Dokja, one way or another. He'd come to understand.
Time wasn't something that they would ever be short on, and though he doesn't realize it, Kim Dokja's already fallen into the palm of his hand. Out of what Yoo Joonghyuk was, 99.9% of the man Kim Dokja's loved for ages, belongs to him. The Yoo Joonghyuk of the 1864th turn could barely encompass 0.0005% of his entire existence, too minuscule to amount to anything comparative.
Kim Dokja was his for the taking from the start, but he would always ask before he laid his hands on anything.
(He was a distinguished gentleman, after all. It's certainly rude to yank away presents the moment they're handed, is it not?)
They eat lunch in comfortable silence.
—— ❈ ——
Secretive Plotter may despise Yoo Joonghyuk with every part of his being, but he looks at the incarnation through the display; has been watching this human, entitled into thinking he's destined for far more greatness than he is, for the past few days. Weeks, perhaps. Either way, it was with marginally more diligence than he had before, and he ends up noticing something rather interesting.
Yoo Joonghyuk was hellbent on entering the N'gai forest, somehow, and had been training day in and day out ever since. It's a little amusing, watching a human of all things attempt to train hard enough to defeat the King of the outer gods. He may despise Yoo Joonghyuk, but it is because of his incompetence that Secretive Plotter now has Kim Dokja, so he thinks a little 'thank you' is in favour.
He should show gratitude to his enemies, when they carve out the path for his victory, yes?
[The constellation 'Secretive Plotter' has sponsored 5,000 coins to the incarnation 'Yoo Joonghyuk']
In nothing but the purest animosity, Yoo Joonghyuk snaps his head up at the sky—at the constellations, at him, and snarls furiously, bristling. It's entertaining, how his shoulders hunch and his fists curl, like he's preparing to attack at any moment. But they both know he can't, so the Plotter just watches as Joonghyuk all but slams the button on his display to send the coins back to him, display flickering with the force.
[The incarnation 'Yoo Joonghyuk' has returned 5,000 coins to the constellation 'Secretive Plotter']
How tragic, he muses to himself when he receives the coins. He taps a finger on his chin in thought; it's quite rude not to properly compensate someone for their efforts, so he tries again, smiling.
[The constellation 'Secretive Plotter' has sponsored 50,000 coins to the incarnation 'Yoo Joonghyuk']
It's not that he thinks Kim Dokja's worth only a measly fifty-thousand coins—no, Kim Dokja's value was as immeasurable as the universe itself. Those coins could never stand in place of Kim Dokja's life, could never stand in place of him.
(Secretive Plotter would rather erase everything he'd worked for from existence, than condense Kim Dokja's value down to something so small and tangible.)
Something that could be attained with ease would quickly lose its value; dulling and wearing down over the years as it becomes a common feat for the masses to acquire, rising in numbers and lowering in value. As what was once a shining rarity becomes a lustreless normality.
Fine art remains the irrefutable exception. Everyone could contently admire from afar, through glass windows and sturdy gold frames that wouldn't allow the piece to be held and tainted, stained and ruined, ripped and broken—every admirer could stare from a distance, at museums, at exhibitions, knowing that their place wouldn't be anywhere near such masterpieces.
Kim Dokja Company's members could never mimic those manners, even if Kim Dokja was the finest piece of art created in history, the only of his kind. Even if he was far beyond the likes and worth of the Salvador Mundi; delicate, curious, and so intricate that even his finest details would take a millennia to explore; crumbling all the same with just the slightest graze of dirty, clumsy fingers that had never learnt to look, but not touch.
The Plotter would never stoop so low as to place a price tag on the man, and if someone were to—whether at the cost of an entire country, a world, a universe, it doesn't matter; Secretive Plotter would take immediate offense. Even if Kim Dokja was worth all the riches, all the currency ever brought into the world, across the expanse of time, through the infinite universes.
(Despite it all, he would still hand it all over in a millisecond without hesitation.)
(Because Kim Dokja would always be worth everything, and more.)
(Then, he'll burn his receipt into ashes and scatter the remains across all the world lines; the only proof he'll allow, of the man ever existing, in miniature flecks of dust.)
—— ❈ ——
The pleasant, warm haze of things that'd been blanketing over him—the confirmation that he is loved, the leisurely comfort in the palace, the forest itself, shatters with almost horrifying clarity less than a day later. Perched on a chaise, a novel explaining regressor lore in hand, Kim Dokja's faced with a realisation; as if someone's dropped a brick into his stomach, dread pulling the feeling taut.
He hasn't thought about the company members much, if at all, in the past few days. During most of his stay at N'gai Forest. He's just been reading, eating, and chatting with the kkoma's without a single worry. His treasured companions haven't been on his mind—the companions he'd spent years with, the children he rescued, the dokkaebi he raised.
It sends an unpleasant chill down Dokja's spine.
Was this an after-effect of staying in the forest too long? Something between the world lines, occupied solely by outer gods. He wasn't nearly close to being one; maybe he subconsciously couldn't handle the overwhelming statuses of their fables, and it was taking a toll on his own ones? It's what keeps him alive, a life force strung with memories he'd made with his company— family, they were family–– so it'd make sense if some words were missing from them, right?
Secretive Plotter required splitting into miniature avatars in order to preserve his memories within this realm. Kim Dokja has none. He tries to calm himself. it's perfectly reasonable; he was in tatters when he was brought over here, wasn't he? Some parts of his fables would have crumbled on the way here, surely
(He wasn't in tatters now.)
And yet, panic douses him like rainfall; he'd been minding his business when it drizzled on his head, giving him less than a second to adjust before it pours hard; trickling down his hair, seeping into his skin, chilling him to the bone.
(He should go before he forgets any more.)
As if it'd drown him if he stays a moment longer, Dokja sets the book down and lets his shakey feet guide him to the door. Cold fingers grasp even colder handles, and he pulls the door open.
(Time still passed, even if on different wavelengths. How much time had passed on Earth? he spent a few days with the 1863rd Yoo Joonghyuk and came back three years into the future.)
Logically speaking, there should be an exit, right?
He knows the palace has a few. Heavy, huge doors almost larger than life that creak when pushed open. He's seen it when he'd been dragged back inside by the kkomas and the plotter when a conversation with an outer god went astray. The issue was where. It's not a surprise that a place with over a thousand inhabitants would be gigantic, especially when Yoo Joonghyuk had been living comfortably even before the scenarios started.
He's never been particularly materialistic, choosing to invest in things of more importance rather than splurge on unnecessary decor, but the lack of distinguishable features throughout the halls makes Dokja feel like he's spent the past few minutes running in circles.
(And how silly is that, when the entire forest is full of circles?)
(No beginning, no end, no escape.)
If the realisation in the library was the downpour, then the hallways were the awning where the coldness of rain finally settles into Dokja.
They would tell him if something happened to his beloved companions, wouldn't they? N'gai's a place outside the star stream's reach, so he can't really get direct knowledge from the stream itself, but—
Secretive Plotter could view it, right? and the kkoma's——
666 didn't really slice Dokja when he took the chibi's phone. He'd just been embarrassed because he was in the middle of sending coins with a petty message. Dokja just needed to find a kkoma. And then he would see if his companions were alright———
(They had to be.)
(Why can't he remember their faces?)
———and he would make his exit from the forest, regardless of the fact that his incarnation body still hasn't healed properly.
He has an attribute to protect him, and a skill to regenerate himself as many times as he needs. He's armed with knowledge from ways of survival, in the way that the company members aren't.
999 was always around him, so why couldn't he pop out of somewhere now?
(Had this been their plan all along?)
Dokja looks around the awfully bare hallways, frustrated groan trapped in his throat. They were always trying to meddle in his affairs whenever he wanted to be discreet, but they're nowhere to be found when he actively looks for them. His face scrunches up, fingers curling into fists. How on-brand for the Yoo Joonghyuk's. How very on-brand for them.
Is this a taste of his own medicine? He tries to humour himself, trying to think of witty responses to his own thoughts.
…But he just finds that he misses the 4th wall, instead.
He sighs and quickens his pace towards the windows. There'd been a gazebo, old with foliage wrapped around it, paint chipping, near the east edge of the forest—at least, Dokja assumes it's the edge of the forest. He isn't exactly sure what went past the trees, they were too thick to peer after and peek through. He isn't exactly sure that there was an end, an edge, either.
Didn't the Wenny King have a portal somewhere here? Maybe Dokja could convince him; trade a legendary fable, to let him return.
He glances at the windows; grand, floor to ceiling panels with gold curled around to frame them. They glittered when the sun hit. He looks and feels around for a knob, a handle; they had to air out, didn't they? Otherwise it'd be unbearably stuffy. Upset with his lack of findings, Dokja knocks his knuckles against the glass, ignoring his fingerprints on the crystal clear material—it sounds thick, emitting a dull thud. He isn't really sure if he can break past it.
(He should, he has to.)
He's about to try it, add more force, punch it open, but a voice interjects before he can.
"What are you doing?" Secretive Plotter asks, arching an eyebrow, the same, familiar expression of unimpress on his face. He has his hands in his pockets, coat draped over his shoulders. The evening sun hits his face, contours it, makes his eyes sparkle gold. Makes him look regal—like a heroic prince, of sorts.
Makes him look warm.
(Dokja fails to realise that behind warm lights, lurked cold, dark shadows.)
It should be concerning how quickly the panic in his chest bubbles down into a simmer.
It should be ridiculous how quickly his heart accepts that the other can't have any ill intentions towards him, the thoughts erased from his mind like dust slipping through fingers in a sandstorm.
(Of course. He feels silly. There's no way someone who cared —loved!— for him this much would harbour anything of the sort.)
(If he didn't, couldn't know Yoo Joonghyuk this well, then there would be no one who could. Yoo Joonghyuk was written for him and him alone to understand, after all.)
(Right?)
He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it, frustrated. He wasn't a writer, but his tongue jumbles with the words on the tip of his tongue. He's begun to notice that he gets distracted quickly nowadays, thoughts slipping from his grasp like wet soap. He's certain that it's another cue for him to leave.
Looking up at the plotter, Dokja firmly tells him— tells , because this wasn't a request. Something like this wasn't trivial enough to debate, it had to be done.
"I'm returning to my companions."
It's at moments like these, that he curses the protagonist for having such an unreadable face, such a steady gaze. He can't read what goes through his head the same way he could read the company members thoughts, the same way he could read Yoo Joonghyuk's thoughts, before he stopped being a character.
Almost thoughtfully, Secretive Plotter tilts his head to the side. It would look innocent, curious, like the way he did in the 1863rd round, akin to a bemused, confused pup. If only his eyes weren't so dark, so clear.
So sharp.
"Why?" he asks, a short reply. His expression doesn't change. Dokja isn't exactly sure how to calculate his moves; with Yoo Joonghyuk, he could just brawl things out if things didn't go well between them. But this—with Secretive Plotter, he's not exactly sure if he could get away in one piece. If he could get away.
(Would the plotter fight someone he claims to love?)
That thought makes the hairs on his nape stand up.
Clearing his throat, Dokja looks back out the window, trying to squint at the almost infinite, endless forest, trying to find a possible way out. The gears shift in his head, and he wonders if he could use his good deeds in the 1863rd round and ask for something of equal value in return, since he had nothing else over the Plotter, unfortunately. He looks back at Secretive Plotter, expression neutral, unrelenting. "They need me to enter the final scenario."
The Plotter hums, and replies, "They don't."
He snaps his fingers, and watches from his peripheral vision as Dokja's expression becomes unsteady; eyes widening, stature becoming rigid as he watches the display of the star stream that's popped up, linked to the channel. Biyoo's channel. Their channel. Kim Dokja's Company are training well on the screen, unsettled for the scenario, maybe, but not running themselves into the ground in worry.
(Not worrying themselves over Kim Dokja so much that they can't live without him.)
They don't talk about him—and it's not like Dokja expects them to.
(But—there's a twinge of shameful disappointment that simmers in his chest, scorching his heart for a brief moment when not even his name is mentioned. When not even something related to him is brought up.)
(As if he was never there to begin with.)
(Like the natural flow of every other world line. Every one where Kim Dokja doesn't exist.)
(Because it doesn't change the course of fate, whether he is there or not. )
Secretive Plotter rewinds the video until the older footage of them plays out; receiving tickets from the bureau for the final scenario, riding back to earth on the ark. All in one piece, looking perfectly fine.
He takes the opportunity to step closer to Dokja, setting sun casting shadows on his face. Dokja doesn't react; doesn't move aside, doesn't avert his gaze. Satisfaction settles in on Secretive Plotter's expression when he confirms that Kim Dokja doesn't fear him, the way he originally did. Even if momentarily. He glances from the incarnation to the display, and then back.
Slowly, lullingly, the Plotter articulates his words. "They're doing perfectly well, I've shown you everything."
(It's not a lie; he'd shown all the footage from the channel. There'd been occasional blocks from the dokkaebi when the company member's conversations started to become heated, but Kim Dokja doesn't need to know that.)
As if draping his words over Dokja like a blanket, he says, with finality. "You don't need to go." he places his hand on the other's back, weighing down just the slightest. Tucking in what he's saying, almost. He catches the way the muscles under his fingers loosen, even with the layers of fabric between them.
(Of course they would; Kim Dokja's like a small, terrified rabbit out of the woods, unaccustomed to living leisurely, pampered, outside of survival. Unnaccustomed to receiving something without falling into a cruel trap in return.)
(Secretive Plotter needs to coax the small thing until his heart no longer hammers, and he no longer fears what the Plotter would do to him; choosing to become trustful and dependent on his saviour instead.)
He tries to look at Dokja's face, and realises with slight irritation that his longer hair covered his eyes from Secretive Plotter's sight. He's about to raise a hand to brush the strands away when Dokja turns his head to look at him, despondent. "But," he pauses, unable to form words. He's pulling at straws. The Plotter knows that he's pulling at straws, but he lets the star struggle anyway.
(It's better for a rescued bunny to try venturing outside to understand how scary the woods are again; to realise that they don't want to go back, but stay in their owner's warm, safe embrace.)
When Kim Dokja hopelessly gives up on words, Secretive Plotter slowly runs a hand down his back in a comforting gesture. "Your incarnation body has barely healed, you'll hold them back." he says it softly, laced with concern and care, worded in a way that Kim Dokja would understand.
Of course, it's not that the plotter truly believes that Kim Dokja could ever be a hindrance, but for now, he has to make sure that Dokja stays. And the root to it lies within dangling his company members in front of his eyes like a pendulum. Hypnotising, almost. A pendulum whose sway would be disrupted if Dokja's fingers as much as brushed past it. The same way that the second world line changed when he touched the display.
(Yoo Joonghyuk and Kim Dokja were star crossed, like ships passing in the night. Secretive Plotter and Kim Dokja were part of the same orbit, on the same path; they belonged together.)
The key to making Dokja stay was making sure that he was separated from the lock, from the company, as much as possible. Because this was life—those individuals could move on, even with the heartache. Secretive Plotter could not. Kim Dokja could not; they were the only things keeping each other alive.
And Secretive Plotter would single handedly, assuredly , make sure that he'd never be faced with such loneliness ever again.
(After all, polaris couldn't shine so brightly in the sky if it was alone, no?)
Kim Dokja worries a lip between his teeth, staring intently at the display, as if something would reveal itself. As if his members were putting on a show for the star stream, and that the curtains would be drawn soon—with the disillusion that he'd be able to peer backstage. The sweet naïveté failed to noticce that just because he loved the incarnations, doesn't mean that he'd be able to read them the way he could when they were novel characters. Doesn't mean that his feelings would be returned on the same magnitude.
When nothing changes, he exhales heavily—almost a relieved sigh, because they weren't in pain.
It's when Dokja does that, that Secretive Plotter takes his hand; long, slender, gloved fingers wrapping around his thin wrist and moving him to face the Plotter. Dokja's eyes flicker from the display, to their hands, to the Plotter's face. A familiar look of being lost, of fatigued helplessness; he's looking at Secretive Plotter like he has the answers.
(A complete reversal of their roles in the 1863rd world line.)
Fortunately for him, Secretive Plotter has an answer. Even if it's not the one that someone else would choose, even if it's not something that Yoo Joonghyuk would choose. He tugs Dokja closer by the wrist, and softly murmurs, "Stay."
He says it sweetly, warmly; with the same softness, the same coziness of a well lived home. In the same nurturing tone Kim Dokja's talked to him in, before. With all the gentle care that Kim Dokja's given him, reflected back to him the same way the moon does with the sun.
Dokja considers it, but because the briefest flash of hesitation flashes in his eyes, the Plotter adds; "Just until your incarnation body heals."
(That was a lie, the first one he'd told the other. but it's something harmless, without weight, out of consideration —for Dokja's benefit, so he'll lie this once.)
At that, the hesitance falters, fades away; slipping off the same way a silk robe might. Secretive Plotter squeezes Dokja's hands gently, reassuringly. The stiff, tense muscles under his hand relax marginally more than they did before, so the Plotter slides his hand up from Dokja's back, to his nape, and over his shoulders, coming to rest against the curve of his cheek.
(For the first time in a while, he wonders how it'd feel against skin; how Dokja would feel against his skin, without the layers between them.)
Contemplating the thought, he gently runs his thumb over Dokja's cheek lovingly. "Hm?" he coaxes, looking for Dokja's own answer.
Bowing his head into the touch in a way that obscures his eyes from view again, Dokja quietly whispers back. It's something Secretive Plotter might've missed if his hearing wasn't eagle-sharp from thousands of years of overuse. Something he might've missed if he wasn't staring at Dokja's lips, fixated on the swell of red.
Okay.
He's about to pull Dokja closer, press a kiss into the crown of his head, pull him into his arms. Maybe stroke his hair and gently coax him to stop taking the multitude of elixirs he'd been chugging from his first meal of the day to his last, in an attempt to recover his incarnation body quicker. Of course, its effect remains steadily minimal; it wasn't something designed for a constellation to begin with—natural recovery was the best.
(Even if it took years. Decades. Centuries. Eons.)
But Dokja raises his head, meeting Secretive Plotter's gaze head on. His eyes don't waver, but his lips twist the same way his fingers curl when he's hesitating, considering something. The Plotter's about to encouragingly squeeze his hand again, but then Dokja opens his mouth.
"Just...just until my incarnation body heals."
Secretive Plotter catches himself before he clenches his fingers, schooling his expression back into something warm, something soft. He smiles. something deceptive.
"Of course."
(Two lies to Kim Dokja. it came easily; kept him in place.)
His third attempt to get away is quickly thwarted.
Secretive Plotter quickly figures out that his greatest weapon against Kim Dokja wasn't novels, food, or lies. It's much simpler than grand promises and magnificent feasts; such a minuscule thing that he'd overlooked it entirely amidst his search on what could keep such a man who'll allow himself to reveal so little.
The answer he's looking for presents itself in a simple touch.
(The gap between Dokja's attempts to get away becomes longer and longer, to the Plotter's favour; surely spiralling towards a time in which a beginning and end would become indistinguishable—round, endless, like everything that is in this forest of forever.)
He finds that this time, all he has to do is wrap an arm around Kim Dokja, in the same way a snake would curl around its prey, face pressed to the sensitive slope of his neck, and whisper a desolate plea, " Don't go, " to make Dokja's breath hitch.
Feeling the latter's pulse pick up from where Secretive Plotter has a hand around Dokja's wrist, he forces himself not to smile. He hugs Dokja tighter, pressing his smaller back to the Plotter's broad chest; feels the addicting warmth of Kim Dokja, even through their clothes. Akin to taking shelter in a cold storm, he clings to the man with crafted desperation, chasing after that warmth, refusing to let it go.
"Don't leave me," he murmurs heartbrokenly, lips ghosting over skin, tracing his woeful pleas onto it. Dokja shivers just the slightest from the sensation, squirms in Secretive Plotter's grip. In response, he brings his other arm to wrap around the man as well, holding him like precious glass.
(The imagery sounds gorgeous; Kim Dokja, wrapped up in Secretive Plotter, trapped within his arms. he's almost tempted to break character to admire the sight.)
But there's more pressing matters to attend to, like Dokja's doe eyes trying to meet his own.
(Even though he loved the company members, he loved the Yoo Joonghyuk that'd become Secretive Plotter first. and because of that, he could hesitate before leaving him alone.)
(Because only the loneliest person could read a story with the loneliest protagonist, and understand his pain; want to keep him company.)
So, Secretive Plotter shows Kim Dokja the most sincere expression he can make; because there's truly no point in his existence without him. He keeps his eyes on Dokja's, until they stop flickering around, scanning his face anstilly, and instead stay transfixed on the Plotter's own. Dokja looks—guilty, at the prospect of leaving him alone. After all, no one else would understand it's hellscape.
He runs his thumb over the curve of Dokja's waist, "Kim Dokja." he pours millions of years' worth of yearning into it; tries to condense such a limitless feeling into three syllables like it's a like it's a prayer on his lips, a plead for salvation.
The man in his arms sighs; something apologetic, something understanding. An unspoken reference to the regression round they both know, and the thousands of lifetimes he'd lived waiting. The lifetimes that Dokja doesn't know he's impacted.
When Kim Dokja turns his head to press his face into Secretive Plotter's hair, free hand coming up to run through the strands, and there's a silent I know, I'm sorry in his actions—that's when Secretive Plotter knows that he's won this time, as well.
"Just a while more." akin to mimicking his fighting techniques, Kim Dokja's started to lie back to him now.
(What he really means is that there's no such thing as a little while.)
(Because no matter how much Kim Dokja cherished the company, he would always be first .)
It continues; the thoughts of them slowly trickle out of Kim Dokja's mind until they're only mentioned in passing, like a distant memory; less of a thing he has , and more of a thing he once had . Until it's become something he could move past, because he had found something much better, and that something resided in the N'gai forest, hidden from the rest of the universe; in Secretive Plotter. In his palace, his rooms, his clothes— him.
In the palace, in a room dusted off and so well lived in, that it could be considered home, in clothes that soon replaced the worn out ones that Dokja's been wearing for years.
Until the only evidence of him existing in the other world-lines were scars from battles, atop the vague memories that still remained rooted in Dokja's head. It's no matter to worry about; they could just make new ones. Make so many of them, that everything from the other world-lines get drowned out, the same way that the 1864th round couldn't hold a candle to all the rounds that Secretive Plotter had suffered through.
For his scars, Secretive Plotter would get his hands on every potion and elixir in the universe, ensure that Kim Dokja's skin was as smooth and unblemished as his soul.
And then, like replacing old memories, Secretive Plotter would taint his skin—with his lips, with his teeth, with his hands, instead of high class weaponry. And Kim Dokja would scream, from overwhelming pleasure and not immeasurable pain.
—— ❈ ——
Secretive Plotter may despise Yoo Joonghyuk with every part of his being, but.
Upon losing Lee Seolhwa, their child, his sister, everything —Yoo Joonghyuk broke down, crumbling like the buildings in Seoul when the end of the word had first hit. He'd cried, screamed; reduced to nothing but the sense of raw pain and relying on little more than instinct at emotions he hadn't known before forcibly breaking past his skin and bones onto his surface. He didn't know anything besides the hot salt of his tears, the tremor in his shaking fists, and the suffocating chill of emptiness that'd ripped him apart and left him hollow, aching, null of his everything.
But this, when he lost his companion, none of those traits were present; staring blearily at the blank walls of the hospital for days, disappearing to train, and trapped in a daze with the same lucidity of a drowning man with lungs full of water and only his eyes left to process any sense.
He never stopped—on his own accord, at least. Refusal to eat, to rest, to revert back into someone rather than some mindlessly drifting thing , not until the weapons in his hands trembled and his knees finally gave under his weight. Even then, he didn't cry.
…And yet, this was the most despaired that Secretive Plotter had ever seen him. As if his reason for existence was ripped from his grasp, taking away everything that made him a person, leaving behind the shell of a fighter programmed for war and nothing else. As if he knew nothing else. As if he was tired, without ever being granted the privilege or permission or ability to rest.
The Yoo Mia of this world line mentions it sometimes, because oppa, you look tired. Asking oppa, where's that ugly ahjussi? Then quietly stating, much, much later: oppa, you look sad. You were happy when that ahjussi was here.
But because Mia is young—much, much younger than even Shin Yoosung; too young to properly grasp that this wasn't death, but something unfathomable even for her all knowing, great brother, who's lived though so much—Yoo Joonghyuk just smiles sadly and strokes her hair. It's not an expression that he wears, expressing remorse and condolences in quieter ways. Secretive Plotter wonders whether it's another thing that he'd picked up from Kim Dokja.
It was amusing at first, watching Joonghyuk irately train until he spat blood and collapsed to the floor, then sponsoring coins to him out of spite just to watch the man harness all his leftover strength to glare up at the sky and return the sponsorship. A sick sort of glee would twist in the Plotter's chest, a glinting smile curling on his mouth at the red-hot fury he'd be able to procure.
But now, even that expression's begun to wear down, turning into the all too familiar autopilot that he remembers. An awful feeling, too reminiscent of the 1863rd world-line, of swinging his blade with a fogged head, praying to a god that would never listen, and wishing for a rest that he'll never get.
To know that they would both be in that state without Kim Dokja is unnerving, unsettling. He doesn't like the thought of ever sharing common ground with Yoo Joonghyuk. So, like any sane person, Secretive Plotter looks away.
(Not like there's a reason to watch the Star Stream anymore, either. Not when the brightest of them all, is right here.)
—— ❈ ——
Time progresses, Secretive Plotter's not sure how long's passed—a more accurate explanation would be that he simply doesn't care. But he's able to note that Dokja's hair brushes over his cheeks, that his eyebags have reduced from resting well for once, snuggled into the finest sheets and softest bedding. The rat like, sunken pallor that'd usually been pressed onto his skin is gone, too, cheeks softened and full of colour. Perhaps that has something to do with the changes to his diet, scarving down dumplings, omelette rice, hot chocolate and sweets at concerning paces, habits switched from pacing and planning to simply lounging around. Somewhat akin to a lazy housecat.
(The snark, however, remains a stubborn leech with its teeth wedged into Kim Dokja's very being , because he is as mouthy and annoying as ever. )
Secretive Plotter takes a moment from his tea, lets his eyes flicker to Kim Dokja, seated opposite him at the gazebo, and muses, stewing over the thought.
Comparatively speaking, this Kim Dokja looks more lively and healthy. Any sharp edges he'd developed from constant threats onto his life have sanded down against the grit of time and space in N'gai Forest, and the Plotter supposes that he doesn't exactly fit the word soft anymore. Something more gentle, more serene.
He looks—beautiful . Stunning. Ethereal. Celestial.
In the way that the afternoon light spills over him, encasting a halo around him as he has his nose buried in a book. In the way his clothes drape over him, creasing softly into his frame, befitting him much more than the crisp suits and dress shoes did. In the way he looks at home in the forest, hidden away from the other world lines between dense shrubs and foliage alike, as if he's some precious secret for the Plotter to hide.
In the way he's unguarded, trusting of the strange realm he's forgotten he wanted to escape from; dazed and worry-free, as the mentions of the 1864th world line—as the want to go back to the 1864th world line, all slip past his fingers like fine sand, scattered away by the wind, those silly thoughts replaced by sweet cotton.