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“Kim Dokja, look at me.”
Hearing the Plotter refer to him by his full name makes the boy wince. It’s a name meant for a man just like him, but bigger. A man who’d do anything for his companions, willing to sacrifice multiple lives for their happiness.
A bright and shining constellation, and not someone like the Oldest Dream—barely even a gleam.
He knows.
He knows how much the Plotter cares for Kim Dokja.
That Kim Dokja, who isn’t him.
He’s seen the way his eyes sparkle. Seen the ferociousness and jealousy permeating off his entire being; the anguish of not being able to have Kim Dokja for himself like the Yoo Joonghyuk of the 1864th turn. He’d witnessed it in his dreams after all, as he waited alone in the train for someone to break past his walls and save him as promised thousands and thousands of years ago.
Callus fingers—rough and scarred—gently grip his chin to make the boy face him. Yet the powerless god immediately shuts his eyes as tight as he can, body trembling along with quivering bitten lips.
He’s too afraid to face the Plotter.
He’s afraid that if he were to open his eyes even the slightest bit, he might catch a glimpse of hatred from the person he cherishes most.
Although the Plotter may have taken him by the hand, breaking him out of his endless dream and promising a future for their companions and himself, the oldest dream understands that he is still the very being who forced his dreams upon his most beloved protagonist—the source of the Plotter’s lengthy tale.
But more than that, he’s afraid to see a certain emotion that he doesn’t deserve. One that should be directed to another him, who could provide the plotter of the salvation he seeked. One that is probably directed at the boy just because they look the same.
And that is something he cannot bear.
For someone who’s ruined Yoo Joonghyuk’s life—all the Yoo Joonghyuks—why would he even be a choice when there’s another him that saves them?
To be nobody’s choice is what it is, and what it should be.
After all, what can a dreamer do but ruin their lives by forcing them to live out his fantasies again and again and again… as though they were nothing but lifeless puppets hanging by the strings from his fingertips.
He's jealous too. So jealous that he’s surprised the room hasn’t erupted into flames from the sinking pit in his stomach, constantly churning and gurgling like a pot of lava.
For all the aching in his heart, reason puts out the fire of envy burning within him. Because the lonely god understands—he truly does.
Who wouldn’t fall for someone like Kim Dokja?
A person still within the Plotter’s reach; a quick-witted man with smarts that shone all the way to the constellations; a man gifted wings and freedom, who could laugh and cry and love when all he could do was hug himself tight as he dreamed for eternity.
Then, he had barely enough probability to stay conscious, his body regressing alongside the Plotter’s many regressions—his wings now clipped, his body shrunken.
Once upon a time, the banished outer god had wondered: Why?
Why is it him and not me? Aren’t I the same person? Aren’t I just someone who had to wait longer and struggle more? So why is it him and not me?
For as long as he can remember, the Oldest Dream had wondered the same.
Why is it that Kim Dokja? Haven’t I been waiting for you longer than him? Haven’t I always been stuck here, in this same place, in this starry sky, waiting and watching over you?
—Didn’t you promise to find me…?
“Kim Dokja.”
A finger gently prods his bottom lip. “Dokja,” the voice murmurs again. “Won’t you look at me?” The boy feels his throat constrict, but he doesn’t know how to answer him.
There are so many things he feels, so many things he wants to say; conflicting emotions he doesn’t know how to describe. And for words that are unable to spill from his lips, his eyes do it for him—tears spilling and rolling down soft cheeks as he chokes back sobs.
Those rough fingers make their way to his wet eyelashes, brushing away the flecks of stars from them. He hears a soft sigh escape the man before him, then, a question.
“Can you please open your eyes, hm?”
The low voice reverberates in his ears, calming his senses, and a large, warm hand finds its way to his own, rubbing comforting circles into his palm in encouragement.
“Dokja-ya,” the voice continues despite the lack of response. “Aren’t you tired of fighting yourself?”
Dark eyelashes finally flutter open, like the wings of a timid butterfly, revealing a pair of brown irises that were previously afraid of letting themselves be seen. And stunned at the sight before him, the boy’s breath hitches, eyes widening from disbelief.
There’s only fondness on the man’s expression despite the pained smile on his lips from watching his god cry. Yoo Joonghyuk, his Yoo Joonghyuk, lowers himself to his knees and lifts the boy’s slender leg towards his lips, pressing them gently against the dainty foot—a kiss full of reverence and worship.
A pair of eyes look up at him, steady. The golden eye, engraved with a scar illustrating the tribulations of his sufferings, glows brightly—brighter than lightning. And a warm smile is splayed on Yoo Joonghyuk’s face.
(One he’s always wanted to see; one he spent hours in bed praying that the other would be blessed with at the end of his long journey.)
(And this very smile is now directed at him.)
“Kim Dokja. My Kim Dokja, let me love you.”
Another kiss, tender and sweet, is placed on his ankle, as Yoo Joonghyuk trails featherlight kisses upwards; onto Kim Dokja’s calves, the mole on his knee, towards his inner thighs—Yoo Joonghyuk traverses the boy with the same weight he spent traversing countless lifetimes.
Unlike before, with his guard up—always alert yet awaiting something, anything—he roams Kim Dokja’s skin as though he’s found his destination.
His god, his dream.
His ◼️◼️.
Steady hands slip beneath Kim Dokja’s clothes, caressing everything it can touch. Fingers trace the stumps on Kim Dokja’s shoulder blade, eliciting a shudder from the god as he clenches his fists tightly. His hands shake, hovering between wanting to push Yoo Joonghyuk away, and wanting to pull him close—wanting this semblance of care.
But fear overtakes his thoughts and Kim Dokja grips Yoo Joonghyuk’s forearm, putting a stop to his movements.
Because unlike Kim Dokja who’s free from his past, whose skin is clear, no marks left behind, this boy is still filled with red marks and bruises that can never fade—multitudes of scars and blemishes covering pale skin that will never fade. A god forever stuck in the body of a child, chained and tied down to those memories; a dying constellation, and a boy with no future.
And who would want someone like that?
Yoo Joonghyuk rises from the ground, cupping both sides of Kim Dokja’s cheeks before bending forward. Kim Dokja feels a warmth between his brows. “I want you.”
But why would anyone want someone like that?
Careful fingers thread themselves within unruly locks, and Yoo Joonghyuk leans lower, pressing his lips against Kim Dokja’s own: “Because I love you.”
(Can the darkest parts of Kim Dokja, that not even Kim Dokja himself wants, truly be loved?)
Tears continue to fall from the corner of his eyes as Yoo Joonghyuk kisses those bitter droplets away, murmurs of I love you’s accompanying each and every one. And when his eyes finally dry, Yoo Joonghyuk presses his forehead against Kim Dokja’s, clutching him close without hesitation. As if to say: I choose you—and never again will I let anyone take away my memories of you, even myself. I will always choose you.
(Maybe, it can.)
“You’ve been waiting for me for so long, haven’t you?” Yoo Joonghyuk brushes his nose against Kim Dokja’s, and the corners of his lips curve softly. Then, he whispers. A soft sound filled with gentle warmth; a sound like home.
“You don’t have to wait any longer. I'm here.”
(And maybe—just maybe—he can too.)