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It was bound to happen, one of these days.
This was the struggle of getting too comfortable in the scenarios—thinking he was the protagonist when he most certainly was not.
Protagonists don’t struggle like Kim Dokja. They’re confident and easily accepted by others and have unfortunately string plot armor that shields them from mundane, everyday problems. And most of all, especially Kim Dokja’s case, they don’t get sick.
Never.
Unless the story called for some secret, magical illness that drives the plot forward, there was no such thing as the common cold for a protagonist.
Kim Dokja, stupidly, forgot about this.
He went to bed feeling particularly awful. His bones were cold and achy, while his throat felt dry no matter how much water he drank. But it wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was only when he woke up that the full force of sickness hit him, so he thought he was doing pretty well yesterday, all things considered.
The man contemplated going out and continuing his duties like he normally would, but he heaved out long, suffocating coughs and decided better of it. He’d undoubtedly become the center of attention when they discovered he was sick.
And despite what the company might say—he did have enough self preservation to know fighting in a weakened state was a bad idea. So take that, Han Sooyoung.
Kim Dokja stared at the door for another moment longer before he lowered himself back into bed. Whatever kind of sickness it was, he hoped he could sleep it off. They had a main scenario coming up in a couple weeks and he still had a lot to prepare for.
His eyes closed to fitful sleep.
The first day went like that. Kim Dokja confined himself to his room, not once bothering to go outside and explain what happened to him. Through his fever-dazed mind, he figured that the constellations would say something to the company if they bothered to ask. So there was no point in telling the others himself.
He did not eat, only drinking the little bit of water he already had stashed in his room.
His stomach churned.
Of course he didn’t wake up feeling any better. From childhood all the way to adulthood, Kim Dokja had never been able to bounce back easily from anything. Often, his one sick day would turn into a week, bedridden and miserable.
He figured some of it was due to his poor health. Too skinny, always weak. There was no way a person like that could build a strong immune system. It was unfair. But then he figured, the rest of it might be due to his lack of self care. (Surely there was a reason books and tv shows always showed sick people getting pampered with soups and cool towels. )
Though in his defense—no one ever taught him how.
Kim Dokja stood up to venture to the bathroom, falling once and stumbling twice as he tried to get there. He crouched down after washing his hands because the room was swaying just a bit too much for his liking, and stayed there for a few hours. He was wedged between the cool porcelain underbelly of the sink and the bathtub, until he found the energy to crawl back into bed.
This was obviously bad, but he had a feeling the worst was yet to come. It always was.
Curled up with his knees to his chest, under blankets that were sticky with his sweat, he couldn’t help but feel like a child.
That child who knew the same pattern of falling ill. He’d get sick, and then suffer for days because of it. He’d stay locked in his room, silent and invisible out of fear. His father didn’t care if he was unwell. Neither did his aunts or uncles, when he’d eventually moved with them.
Sometimes, Kim Dokja would creep out into the kitchen in the middle of the night. Try to make tea the way his mother did for him. But then he would spill hot water on himself while he tried to pour, or burn the leaves as they steeped, and feel hopelessly pathetic when it didn’t taste right. He gave up the attempt after some time, and he never tried it again.
At the memory, Kim Dokja felt frustration sting his eyes. He just needed to make it through the peak, and he’d be okay. Everything would be okay.
(He wished he had tea.)
He woke up again coughing.
The sky outside told him it was still nighttime, but that meant absolutely nothing.
He struggled to breathe through choking gasps.
It hurt all over. Everywhere. His chest was sore, and his lungs burned, and his stomach felt like it was trying to claw up and out his throat.
With one hand pressed resolutely against his mouth, trying to hold his breath. It was the fastest way to suppress fits, he learned once. It was difficult, and didn’t always work, but if he could manage to convince his brain that he was not in danger of choking, he could stop his throat from making these involuntary fits of wet, ragged coughs.
Kim Dokja started to gag.
What a great way to enjoy his night. So much for sleeping it off.
There was nothing to throw up, so he heaved spit and bile into the toilet, cringing as he did it. This was probably the worst part.
After all these years, he was still childish and stupidly afraid of vomiting. His clammy hands trembled. It was so stupid. He was stupid.
Still, he flushed it away, and took great effort to rinse out his mouth in the sink. His mouth tasted like acid, and his legs shook. Then there was the headache that just spawned. God, if he could just crawl into a ditch and die already that would be so much better than this now. He wished he could take some kind of magic potion to fix him up, but even in the world of TWSA, there was no such thing.
At least, no such thing that Yoo Joonghyuk ever had to encounter. This man didn’t get sick. Not like this. Not ever. Sure there was the life and death pill that Lee Seolhwa had, but those were limited, and Kim Dokja, for all his suffering, refused to take one of the few they had in their possession for something as dumb as the flu.
He didn’t get the chance to lay down in bed, because he doubled over coughing once more, and his now weak stomach was much inclined to throw up again.
Kim Dokja just wanted to sleep.
“…Kim Dokja?” A muffled voice came from behind the door.
But he didn’t answer, too busy struggling to bring in air between the ugly, ripping coughs.
“Kim Dokja.” The voice tried again, sounding more urgent this time.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, just that he was exhausted and kneeling in front of the toilet, barely able to hold himself upright as the coughing subsided. Then that’s when he noticed the hand on his back, gently patting at a constant tempo.
He turned his head and blinked, registering Yoo Joonghyuk’s pinched expression. Huh. Had it been enough time to reach fever hallucinations? Kim Dokja thought that was more of a late-game thing when it came to being sick.
Still, it sounded real when he heard Yoo Joonghyuk speak ever so softly. “You fool, the others said you were looking for a hidden piece.”
A cool hand reached up to his forehead, brushing away his bangs that were stuck there as it felt his temperature. Yoo Joonghyuk frowned.
“You’re warm.”
If he had any fight left in him, Kim Dokja would’ve tried turning that into some kind of joke. ’Yeah, humans are supposed to be warm’. ‘Am I warm, or am I hot?’ ‘Finally warmed up to you.’ They were all easy ways to tease. To make this uncomfortable tension slip away into something meaningless and unserious. But Kim Dokja barely had the energy to keep his eyes open.
Yoo Joonghyuk must’ve recognized this, because the frown only deepened. “I’ll return,” he said. Like it was a promise.
Kim Dokja nodded. The smallest incline of his head, which he hoped could be understood as a yes.
And then there he was left, slightly dazed in the bathroom, pathetically wishing for that patting hand on his back to return.
In the time Yoo Joonghyuk had disappeared, Kim Dokja begrudgingly dragged himself back into bed. The floor in the bathroom was cold, and while it felt good, it did still end shivers down his spine that made his body ache. He also didn’t have anything left in him to spit out, so there was really no point.
When he reached the mattress, the sheets were scrunched by his feet. They were wrinkled and half fallen off, not even covering his body. Closing his eyes didn’t make him fall asleep, but it did give some relief to the growing headache.
(Kim Dokja hated this feeling.)
Yoo Joonghyuk returned after several long minutes, carrying a small tray in his hands. This was the time Kim Dokja had to seriously consider that he might be hallucinating now.
Gone was the signature black trench boat, instead replaced by comfortable black cotton sleepwear. His heavy boots were missing too, letting his bare feet pad against the floor. He hadn’t paid attention to Yoo Joonghyuk’s attire originally, but somewhere in his feverish state, it did not occur to him once that Yoo Joonghyuk was the type to wear pajamas.
The man carefully set down the tray, only making the slightest of expressions when it made a clattering sound against the wood of the bedside table. It felt like this had been ripped straight from a dream. One that Kim Dokja might’ve imagined back when he was younger.
It didn’t help that Yoo Joonghyuk crouched down to be level with Kim Dokja’s face, a mug in his hand slowly extending to Kim Dokja’s own that could only be described as in a manner of practiced care. All of this felt too kind. Too genuine to be reality.
“Drink, and then eat this,” he said, gesturing to a plate of crackers and toast.
Kim Dokja sat there, looking at his own hands dumbly.
“Drink it while it’s hot.”
He brought the mug to his lips, breathing in the scent deeply. It was soft, and floral, and still somehow rich. It made his throat thick with emotion, his own distorted reflection looking back at him from inside the mug.
Yoo Joonghyuk watched him like a hawk. His eyes were sharp, ever vigilant. Well, this was a protagonist after all, nothing would escape his notice.
So then Kim Dokja took a small sip, feeling the hot liquid coat his mouth and throat as he swallowed. It had already been sweetened with honey, it appeared. How Yoo Joonghyuk got honey in the middle of the scenarios, Kim Dokja didn’t know. But some of the irritation had left his throat as if the tea itself was salve. All of this was so plainly nostalgic of a time he would rather not remember.
Yoo Joonghyuk waited for Kim Dokja’s expression to change. If it would be one of approval or disapproval for the flavor of the tea. Those eyes bore holes into his head from their intensity.
Maybe that’s why it felt more embarrassing when Kim Dokja realized just a moment too late that the thick drops landing on the blanket in his lap were teardrops. And once the gate was open, the stream began to flow.
Once upon a time, his mother would press her forehead against his to feel his temperature, and she’d comb his bangs away from his face, and kiss the tip of his nose. When father was at work, she’d make soup in the kitchen, and let Kim Dokja lay on the floor beside her because he didn’t want to be alone. She made him lemon ginger tea when he woke up, and put him to bed with chamomile, and she’d tuck him in under freshly washed sheets with a promise to check his state in the morning.
But then father was in and out of jobs, and Kim Dokja would sometimes fall ill when that man was at home, and all he could do was muffle his sounds by suffocating himself under covers. And mother couldn’t attend to him like she once had. She’d leave him mugs by his bed, and she’d kiss the crown of his head, but she couldn’t cook anymore.
And then mother was gone, and Kim Dokja only had his aunt and uncle to watch him, and the most kindness he ever saw from them was a bottle of medicine out on the counter with no other notes or instructions.
And finally then Kim Dokja was alone, far too young to be in his own apartment. He spent his days and nights weak and starved, because he had no one there but himself, and his spirit had long since died. On those miserable days, he pretended he was still young, and he’d sit on the kitchen floor of his apartment with a ratty blanket around his shoulders like he was 10 years old again. Kim Dokja’s hands would curl around an empty chipped cup, because he couldn’t find the will to boil water. There was no mother to hum unnamed melodies, or card through his hair, and so his eyes would instead scan over the words in Ways of Survival in her stead. He’d sit there, aching and quiet and so painfully lonely, breathing in the scent of an open chamomile tea bag, and clung to the thought alone that the protagonist was there to console him.
“Kim Dokja?” Yoo Joonghyuk spoke. It was too loud to be called a whisper, but too soft to be anything else.
(Oh, was all Kim Dokja could think. Oh…Oh.)
He pressed the mug back to his lips, greedily drinking as much as he could, because for a split second there, he caught a glimpse of Yoo Joonghyuk’s own horrified expression.
(Just keep drinking. Hide your face in the cup. Don’t be bothersome.)
His face only crumpled further, feeling his throat go tight in all the worst ways. He wasn’t just sad, but he was embarrassed too. This was pathetic.
Kim Dokja has survived many years on his own–he’d lived through worse circumstances. This time though, he couldn’t even defend himself with any flimsy argument. It wasn’t like he’d been sick for long, or that he was emotional from poor sleep. Midnight would only mark three days since Kim Dokja fell ill–he already knew that this wasn’t even the peak. Yet here he was. Crying over chamomile tea.
“Are you…is the tea…” Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands were hovering close to Kim Dokja’s face, like he was unsure of what to do.
Then finally, after far too long, Kim Dokja replied. “It’s good.”
His voice was thick with emotion, and it cracked as he spoke, but he tried to smile anyway. He bit down hard on the inside of his mouth in an attempt to stop the tears from flowing. It didn’t really work.
“It’s really good.” He repeated.
They just looked at each other then. Yoo Joonghyuk had an expression that might’ve been funny if Kim Dokja was in a better mood. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. Slightly mortified, but also determined. Kim Dokja also thought he looked constipated.
And Kim Dokja just kept smiling that painful, sad smile with his swollen cheeks and fever flushed face.
Kim Dokja was the one to break their eye contact first. His smile turned bitter when he peered down into the mug. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
“I was looking for you, fool.”
“...Well I’m here. Just sick. You can– you can see I’m alive so.. you can leave now.”
“Why would I leave you?”
“Aren’t you worried it’s contagious?”
Yoo Joonghyuk just sighed, obviously exasperated, but Kim Dokja couldn’t understand why.
“It’s okay, I’m fine here,” Kim Dokja lied.
Yoo Joonghyuk had already seen him slumped over the toilet, and had seen him crumble over something as simple as tea. There was no point in lying, but he did it anyway.
Still, he seemed to consider Kim Dokja’s words, and his eyes went back to rake over his body from head to toe like he was looking for clues. He must’ve found something, because his expression darkened.
“Is it from a scenario? An item?”
Kim Dokja shook his head as another onset of coughs got ripped out of him. They were wetter than before, and sounded awful. It made his chest feel hollow, and burned angrily.
“Im-mune..sys-tem,” he managed to answer. He had his mouth pressed harshly against the crook of his elbow in an attempt to keep Yoo Joonghyuk from it. His eyes watered as he continued to choke. He couldn’t even breathe, it made him want to claw at his own throat just to get relief.
Yoo Joonghyuk jumped up in alarm, pulling away the mug of tea and setting it aside so it wouldn’t spill, then moving so he could sit directly beside Kim Dokja. He patted his back, waiting for the fit to pass. After several minutes, it did. Kim Dokja slumped bonelessly onto Yoo Joonghyuk’s side, lightheaded and exhausted.
“Fool. You need to rest. I’ll stay with you.”
Kim Dokja opened his mouth to speak, but only shook his head instead. He was in no state to speak.
“Sleep.”
He tried to resist it, but an arm was already wrapped around his shoulders, and a blanket was tucked up to his chest. It seemed Yoo Joonghyuk had already decided this much.
Still, Kim Dokja remained awake for another few long moments. Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t offer any conversation, or white noise. Nor did the man fall asleep first. He just stayed there on the bed, giving up his warmth to Kim Dokja who, begrudgingly, absorbed as much as he could like a leech. It made some of the ache go away in his joints.
He fell asleep watching the slow rise and fall of Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest under the low light of the night sky.
The next time Kim Dokja woke up, he woke up to the sensation of a cold rag being blotted against his face, and the medicinal smell of menthol in his nose.
He blinked, groggy, and tried to sit up. That was a mistake. Blood rushed to his head and pounded against his skull in a blinding pain. He let out a pained groan, and laid down. The only good thing about the headache was that it served as a fast method in fully removing his drowsiness.
He now felt the sweat under his clothes, and the soreness of his muscles. He felt how dry his throat was, and the itching it caused when he breathed. And then he felt the nausea in his stomach, from the days he’s spent bound to his bed.
“Kim Dokja?” The mysterious hand responsible for dabbing that blissfully cold towel on his face apparently had a voice. It took a second longer to remind himself that of course it would have a voice, as it obviously has a body it’s attached to.
Kim Dokja followed the sound until he was met with the unfocused silhouette of a familiar woman. He squinted.
“Lee..Seolhwa?”
Lee Seolhwa nodded. “How are you feeling?”
Kim Dokja sighed, “I’m alive.”
His response seemed to trouble her, because her face soon drew contemplative. Her eyebrows furrowed not unlike Yoo Joonghyuk when he was being faced with an impossible task, and the thought suddenly struck Kim Dokja that she really was a perfect match for the protagonist.
It wasn’t an important thought, nor was it relevant, but he had spent the night dreaming about text on a phone screen, and familiar voices struggling through an apocalypse, so it just popped into his head like it was the most natural thought ever. Lee Seolhwa was beautiful, and she was strong, and smart, and everything Yoo Joonghyuk would ever need.
“What was that?” Lee Seolhwa asked. She pushed a fallen strand of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear.
Kim Dokja realized he must’ve been mumbling. “What are you doing here?” He asked her instead.
She gave him an incredulous look that once again reminded Kim Dokja of Yoo Joonghyuk from just last night. Seems everyone else is on the same page except for him. Well–this time he can understand why a doctor might be visiting a patient, it’s just that Kim Dokja doesn’t remember ever calling for her.
Unless–
“Yoo Joonghyuk is making you something to eat. He asked me to take a look at your condition.”
“Oh..”
She looked at him hard. It took all of Kim Dokja’s focus to not squirm under her gaze, but he still managed to fidget with the hem of his shirt.
“Your fever hasn’t gone down yet, but you’re lucid. When did this start?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but ended up coughing instead. Lee Seolhwa helped him to a sitting position, and offered him a glass of water she had already prepared. He doesn’t drink it though. His hands shake far too much to hold it properly, and he feels like he’s gone blind from how much throbbing pain radiates from his skull.
When he finally stops, Lee Seolhwa is frowning, pulling something from her medical bag. “I have some items you can take, but it isn’t much.”
Kim Dokja doesn’t really care though. He takes the three small pills she offers him, and swallows them dry, much to her annoyance.
“This is day three for me. It will probably last until the end of the week.”
“Are you the type to get sick often?”
Kim Dokja looked up at her through his eyelashes, pale, and sweaty, and achy. Talking about his medical history with doctors is always an…interesting situation. “Before the scenarios, yes. I was often sick as a child too.”
She helps Kim Dokja rest against some pillows, and places the cool cloth back on his forehead. She doesn’t press it all around his face this time, she just leaves it be.
“You know, they say that sick children grow to be healthy adults since their immune systems become stronger.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Many people also noticed that they became healthier if they used coin boosted stats, but tell me, Kim Dokja, do you take care of your health properly?”
Ah right. Here it is. The stern doctor talk that he gets every time. Kim Dokja tried not to let his expression betray his emotions, but really, he just wanted to curl up and lay in silence until nature ran its course.
Still, he had to answer. “I do the best I can in the middle of the apocalypse, Lee Seolhwa.”
“Which is?”
He closed his eyes to avoid rolling them. Somehow he thought Lee Seolhwa wouldn’t like that. “I eat, I sleep, I exercise. I’m just sick this time. Probably something floating around.”
She opened her mouth to say more, but the door behind her clicked. Yoo Joonghyuk appeared with what looked to be a feast fit for a small army.
“He’s awake?”
“Just now. I was asking him some questions.”
“You should’ve gotten me.”
“I was planning on it after I gave him a check-up.”
Yoo Joonghyuk and Lee Seolhwa spoke very dryly to one another. Kim Dokja wouldn’t go as far as to call it bickering, but there was definitely something tense in the air as Yoo Joonghyuk set down all the dishes he carried in.
“Eat as much as you can.”
Kim Dokja looked down at the plates. His stomach lurched uncomfortable.
“I don’t think I can…”
“Just eat.”
Kim Dokja shifted awkwardly as a spoon and a pair of chopsticks were thrusted into his hand. It was…kind of strange to be the only one eating while two sets of eyes followed the way his hand hovered over the different bowls. Kim Dokja could recognize samgyetang, and figured he should try that first, but then there was also a small plate of dumplings and another bowl of jook.
He decided to start by drinking the broth.
After he had successfully gotten a few spoonfuls in his mouth, some of the tension in the room had lessened. Yoo Joonghyuk let out a huff that made it sound like he’d been holding his breath, meanwhile Lee Seolhwa finally turned her attention back to her clipboard of notes.
“It looks like it’s a regular illness. Nothing related to the scenarios as far as my diagnosis can tell.”
Yoo Joonghyuk nodded, satisfied with that.
“If he takes care of himself, I expect a full recovery in just a few days.” The doctor’s eyes narrow when she says this, which makes Kim Dokja feel uncomfortable all around. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Is there anything else you need? Let me know if you feel worse. I’ll be back to bring you more medicine.”
“I’m..I’m okay. Thank you.”
Lee Seolhwa smiles, a soft, but sweet smile and gently pats the top of his head, slightly combing his hair as she does so. Once again, Kim Dokja is struck by the feeling of something so nostalgic, it gets caught in his throat. But he turns his face back to the food Yoo Joonghyuk prepared and swallows another bite just to push the emotion back.
She leaves the room, and Kim Dokja continues to eat. He doesn’t finish it–not even close, but his stomach doesn’t feel quite as weak anymore and some of that shakiness has gone away from his hands.
The silence stretches on until Yoo Joonghyuk collects the tray from Kim Dokja’s lap and looks over the remnants like it might hold some kind of secret.
“It was good, I..I ate what I could. If you leave it, I’ll eat the rest later.”
“No. I’ll make it fresh again. You need the nutrition.”
Kim Dokja wanted to argue that the nutrition wouldn’t go away just because it sat for a few hours, but he couldn’t find it in himself to retort. Instead, he played with the hem of the blanket, feeling much too exposed and kind of pathetic. At least whatever he took had soothed some of the roughness in his throat because it didn’t feel as sore when he swallowed hard.
“Thank you, Yoo Joonghyuk. I appreciate it.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes flicked up to Kim Dokja’s in an instant. There’s an intensity in that gaze, but his voice is oddly soft. “Focus on recovery.”
“I will.”