Chapter Text
Kim Dokja wouldn’t say that he was vain, per se, but he did care about his physical appearance. More than Han Myungoh did, by the look of him—but that was besides the point. It was nice, having something mundane to worry about, in a way. Something that wouldn’t affect anything else in his life. And when he felt that he looked good, it gave him a certain confidence he couldn’t quite out into words.
Most of the time there wasn’t much he could do about it. Not in the big, noticeable ways, anyway. His budget couldn’t stomach more than the cheapest of suits, his shoes were always just the wrong side of too worn, and his poor diet meant that his figure was closer to that of a decades-old-corpse than something he’d deem attractive, but he did what he could.
His cheap suits had creases in all of the right places from the tutorials Kim Dokja had watched on no-iron folding techniques, his hair was always neatly brushed. He got the pleasant-smelling soaps instead of scentless, when the cost was negligible. His eyebags were dealt with in the mornings with a cold spoon. And in this, Kim Dokja took a small amount of pride. But.
But, sometimes it just wasn’t quite enough. Sometimes, when he budgeted especially carefully, or in the rare circumstance he got a meagre work bonus, then. He would go to the shops, and treat himself.
At first, it was just the very basics of skincare. Special soaps and soft cloths for his face. Moisturiser, cleanser. Products to keep his skin clear. He tried to make them last as long as he could, rationing them out and spreading them thin despite knowing that reduced the effect, and tried to only use them on the days he’d need a confidence boost. Big presentations, company dinners, miscellaneous important events. His birthday.
When he got bolder, though, he started to branch out. Walking past the makeup aisle and just looking was no longer enough. He wanted to feel them on his skin. He wanted to look at himself in the mirror and think, yes. He wanted more.
He slowly built up his stock, and with a combination of different YouTube tutorials, learned how to properly apply it. Nothing bold, no bright colours, he didn’t want to get harassed—Minosoft wasn’t known for its progressive company policies—but subtle looks that highlighted his natural features, let him hold his head high, let him feel pretty, he indulged in. So much, that he always had a small emergency bag in his briefcase. Not much, not enough for someone to take note of, but enough for a small pick-me-up on particularly rough days. Some lip gloss after a particularly scathing review from his boss, mascara for when the rumours around him swelled, highlight for when the whispers behind his back weren’t quite quiet enough.
No one really noticed he did it, which was for the best. He didn’t need to add a homophobic slur to the list of perceived failings of self that other people attributed to him. But he felt the difference. He knew, and that was the important thing.
(And Yoo Sangah from HR, once, in the breakroom, slipped him a blush palette. Said she saw it and thought of him. Said that she thought it would look nice on him. Not that he didn’t look nice anyway, she'd hurried to correct, and she didn’t mean anything by it, and Kim Dokja cut her off with a small laugh and a grateful bow. And then later, when he caught her replacing the sugar with salt and she looked so scared he would rat her out, he just winked, and tapped his rose-tinted cheek. They gave each other mischievous smiles when they passed each other, after that. Like they knew a joke no one else was privy to. And they did.)
(And Deputy Yoon, once, when Kim Dokja was just about to open the door to the roof, was discussing with another of their male colleagues. If only he was a girl, he said, he’d slip something in his drink and take him home. Have some proper fun. What do you think he’d sound like, being treated like that, Deputy Yoon asked his interlocutor, and Kim Dokja didn’t linger to hear the reply. He made extra sure to avoid drinking with his superiors after that, and gave a warning to Yoo Sangah to spread around their colleagues too. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to get Deputy Yoon disciplined. Unfortunately, nothing like that ever was.)
In the newly ruined world, there was even less care about appearance than before. Survival mattered, and anything after that was a luxury. But Kim Dokja had always been teetering on the knife-edge of life and death, dancing with gravity. Only now, some of the monsters were visible to other people, too. So Kim Dokja continued caring about his appearance. Business as usual.
Makeup was much cheaper when he didn’t have to pay and no one else wanted it anyway. He finally had access to brands he’d been too cowed to do more than glance at. And he had presence here, in this apocalypse, too. He stood up, and people looked. People looked, and he delivered. He delivered with a confidence he had never felt before, with the stars in the sky mirrored in his kohl-lined eyes, lies and taunts and promises spilling from his tinted lips. He existed, and he mattered, and he was beautiful. And with that, there was no god in the heavens that could bring him down.
His mother tilted her head when they spoke for the first time in a decade in that tent. Her eyes narrowed, and finally, she smiled. “You look nice,” she told him. “I used to use the same shade of eyeshadow, you know.”
Kim Dokja felt a tentative smile form on his own lips, before he remembered who he was talking to, and returned to his detached state. “Mother,” he said in return.
And she proceeded to tear apart all of the mental progress he had made since that dark, dark night.
The dokkaebi bag was good, and a lot of items people didn’t realise could be useful were very cheap, and it was easy to access. It had many perks. The range of its products, too, was admirable. But it still had its flaws.
One of them being the shoes Kim Dokja was currently drilling holes into with his eyes.
The screen didn’t waver, but Bihyung was starting to sweat. {Hey, what do you think you’re doing? You’re not going to do something stupid, are you?}
Kim Dokja glared at him for a split second, before refocusing his attention on the shoes. They were sleek and black, with oxford lacing and a plain wingtip toecap. Austerity brogues, Kim Dokja knew they were called. Business casual. They also came with agility stat increases, but that wasn’t really what had caught Kim Dokja’s attention.
For you to understand Kim Dokja’s feelings, you first need to know that Kim Dokja was the leader of his group of companions. He made the plans, told them the preparations necessary, and was in charge of any last-minute changes. He was the person they turned to for advice, direction, and future scenarios. He was trusted in his decisions, and he did his best to not let them down.
That said, it sort of—and Kim Dokja knew this was pathetic, but—it sort of stung when people encountering their group would immediately turn to Yoo-fucking-Joonghyuk to ask about the situation. Okay, Kim Dokja admits that technically they are co-leaders. Okay, Yoo Joonghyuk also has (more limited) knowledge of the future and the scenarios. Okay, Yoo Joonghyuk is a better fighter than him. But still. Yoo Joonghyuk deferred to him for plans, and insight, and dealing with other people in general frankly. Because he was the main leader.
Kim Dokja had decided for the sake of his self-esteem that the reason people automatically assumed Yoo Joonghyuk was in charge was because he was taller. (And broader. And more intimidating. And scarier. And better with a sword. And stronger. And fucking taller—)
And, what made these shoes so tempting to Kim Dokja, was the two-inch Cuban heel.
Two inches wasn’t much. It wouldn’t even make Kim Dokja equal in height to Yoo Joonghyuk, let alone taller. But. But it would make that difference less immediately obvious. Less glaring. Less frankly embarrassing.
The only issue was, these shoes were 200 000 coins.
Why? Kim Dokja didn’t know. Maybe they were limited edition. Maybe whoever made them had a complex about it. Maybe they had some other property that wasn’t in the small description. All Kim Dokja knew was that he didn’t have enough wiggle-room in his long-term budget plan to spend 200 000 coins on shoes, when he had a perfectly decent, perfectly practical, perfectly stylish pair already.
But fuck was it tempting.
“What are you doing, fool?”
“Wha—!” Kim Dokja jumped, automatically closing the dokkaebi bag, spinning to face the protagonist. “Yoo Joonghyuk! I did not hear—how did you—?”
“It’s dinner time. What were you looking at so intently?” Was it Kim Dokja’s imagination, or was Yoo Joonghyuk’s glare harder than usual? Had he done something to piss him off recently? He racked his brains, but couldn’t think of anything he’d done in the past week that would annoy his companion more than the usual transgression of existing.
“Nothing,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “Doesn’t matter. What’s for dinner?”
Yoo Joonghyuk turned to walk back to the kitchen of the complex, not checking if Kim Dokja was following. He was, of course. “It’s bibimbap. Gochujang sauce.”
Kim Dokja skipped up to walk beside him. “Sounds delicious, Joonghyuk-ah!”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s ears were slightly red when he turned to look.
“Fuck,” Kim Dokja muttered, rummaging through the dimensional pockets of his coat, “I’ve run out of blush.” His reflection in the mirror had scrunched eyebrows (filled in and shaped, obviously,) pursed lips (glossy and pink, of course,) and clear skin (in an unfortunate, ghost-like monochrome.) This was the issue.
In his peripherals he saw a new reflection walk into the corner of the mirror. He assumed it was his usual annoyance, so continued to empty his pockets for any eyeshadow in the right shade—he was desperate, alright—and without turning, said, “Hey, Han Sooyoung, if you pinch me or something for that I’ll kill y—”
A hand, bigger than Han Sooyoung’s, gripped his waist to turn him. Soft lips pressed to his cheekbone, then lifted.
Kim Dokja could only stare open-mouthed as all of his blood rushed to his face at Yoo Joonghyuk, who had a rare triumphant smirk on his face. “You blush just fine to me,” he said.
Ah.
What?
Yoo Joonghyuk leaned back a moment later though, blinking as if just realising something. “Wait. Kim Dokja, why on earth would Han Sooyoung be in the men's bathroom?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be out of character for her to disregard rules like that,” Kim Dokja replied in a pitch notably at least an octave higher than he normally used. Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand was still on his waist. His brain was whirring so loudly Kim Dokja was sure Yoo Joonghyuk could hear it, like an overheating computer. None of the last thirty seconds had actually registered in his brain, and he hoped they never would.
Yoo Joonghyuk grunted and, finally, the hand left his waist, but those dark eyes weighed on him more than the physical touch ever could, trailing over his face. He was wearing his I’m-going-to-murder-you-brutally face, but Kim Dokja had learned that that face actually meant many things in different situations. He hadn't learned how to distinguish the different meanings yet. He was working on it. Or he would be, if all rational sense hadn't just escaped through the nearest exit. “You—” Yoo Joonghyuk started, then paused, scowl deepening. Was he imagining it, or did his voice just crack?
“What?”
“You look nice.”
Uh.
Kim Dokja wasn’t—he wasn’t still imagining that, was he?
No, Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice was definitely higher than usual.
While Kim Dokja.exe was still rebooting, Yoo Joongyhuk scurried off with red ears. If Kim Dokja had been in a competent state of mind, he would have noticed that the back of Yoo Joonghyuk’s neck was also pink.
Sadly he was still recovering even ten minutes later when Han Sooyoung burst into the men’s bathroom, leaning against the sink, various products strewn about, with an utterly stupefied look on his tomato-red face.
She laughed at him for way longer than was polite.