vixx: out alive
Title: out alive
Pairing: Ken/Leo
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1.9k
Warnings: blood, descriptions of death and war
Summary: A shred of goodness lives in Taekwoon's pocket.
a/n: based off the song "photograph" and this lovely edit~
Taekwoon collapses against the small wall of rubble. Rocks and shattered concrete mixed in with plaster dust braces him, legs weak and failing. His breathing is ragged; he breathes in the fumes of war -- dead air, blood, destruction -- and he tries to get full breaths into his lungs, his stomach on fire and burning worse each time his ribs expand.
Explosions are much too close for Taekwoon to be out of the battle. His gun is in the slack of one grip, the other hand in a desperate attempt to block up the hole in his middle. He expects someone, opposite colors, to round the corner and finish him. It’s a matter of when and not if.
Taekwoon’s uniform is tattered, burned in places; he barely missed the blast that destroyed the church. He followed the others -- the rest, what was left -- out, and they had crept around the enemy’s tank and trudged through ditches.
And straight into gunfire. Here is where it went wrong for Jung Taekwoon. One bullet in his abdomen, another in his thigh -- he went down. So many went down. Taekwoon remembers seeing the kid who was complaining earlier about “canned shit” for breakfast hit the dirt -- half his face pounded to mush. He tried to crawl to him, to get him up -- “We need to move,” Taekwoon shouted, throat sore, but it was swallowed by the noise.
The kid didn’t hear him anyways.
Taekwoon grits his teeth, mustering his strength and gathering it into a neat pile. All in check to use to rejoin his troop. He remembers the plan of where to go, where to meet up, and he tries to drag himself away from the pile, but he stumbles and crashes back against the debris. It’ll be slow going.
Grunting, Taekwoon digs his fingers even harsher against his uniform. Steady, he tells himself. But he’s scared. He’s put it off, but he’s letting in thoughts of what happens if he doesn’t make it back.
That can’t happen.
Taekwoon tightens the hand around the gun’s handle, fingers apprehensive to cooperate. He has to get out of here; he promised that. There’s a ball of frustration stuck in Taekwoon’s throat, pressing against the walls, pushing against his eyes.
There’s a picture, creased with lines of being unfolded and refolded too many times, in his chest pocket, over his heart. It’s a candid photo, one Taekwoon took to catch his subject unawares. Jaehwan looked at him last second, grin breaking through at the sight of Taekwoon being sneaky. Eyes crinkled, cheeks round with the spread of the smile, and Taekwoon can always hear the following laugh every time he opens the picture -- it always makes him smile.
The picture is what he thinks of now as blood oozes and escapes in frightening rivulets between his fingers.
“Hold the flower like that,” Taekwoon instructs, Jaehwan’s camera close by and ready to capture.
“What, like this?” Jaehwan puts the flower’s stem between his teeth and looks at Taekwoon from where he sits at the table. Flowers are scattered across the tabletop -- irises, lilies, stalks of green stems with white buds that Taekwoon doesn’t know the name for. They’re swallowing the space, and Jaehwan sifts through the elbows deep pile.
He removes the flower from between his teeth, sighing a bit. “I’ve no idea what she needs all these for. Is she handing them out in goodie-bags?” Jaehwan’s speaking of his soon-to-be sister-in-law, specifically of her impending wedding date and what she could possibly need with all of these flowers, but here they are on Jaehwan’s table.
Taekwoon’s hand creeps toward the camera as Jaehwan goes back to playing with the flowers, sorting them into piles. Shoulder of his shirt is slipping off, his lips poked into a silly expression, the cut of his profile enhanced next to the delicate flower’s head.
He wants the moment frozen.
Taekwoon takes a breath, scared suddenly for some reason, and holds it. His heart beats loud. Alright -- he brings the camera up; “Jaehwan.”
“J- Jaehwan,” Taekwoon splutters. The name comes up, unbidden, and he has to see him. Taekwoon doesn’t take the photo out; his hands are too busy to risk it now, doesn’t want his blood smeared across the glossy surface of Jaehwan’s smiling face.
Then there’s only one other way to see him.
Taekwoon drags his feet on the ground, gun dangling at his side. He trips and catches himself before tumbling to the dirt, but that’s a miracle.
Jaehwan would have plenty to say about the state he’s in. “What’d you go and do to yourself this time?” He’d say this after the danger’s passed but the fright’s still in his eyes. “You’re not supposed to get shot.” Maybe there would be a nudge on Taekwoon somewhere, gentle fingers that speak of Jaehwan’s worry prodding him. “You have to be careful.”
Taekwoon coughs, wheezing. Back -- he has to get back.
He passes the disfigured bodies of his brothers and sisters in arms; he tries to not look solely so he won’t see their pain, frozen on their faces. Taekwoon trudges on. He wonders if he’ll be lucky enough to survive.
“You better.” Jaehwan’s voice is firm on the phone, harsh crackle as he readjusts it to his ear. “Taekwoon, you….”
“Don’t--” Taekwoon can’t say “worry,” so he says, “forget to sleep. Also, your medicine’s on the counter.”
Jaehwan snorts, derisive, and Taekwoon leans against the light pole. His bus is late, and Jaehwan’s been on strict instructions to stay home. He’s barely well enough to be awake right now, and he didn’t need to make the trek to the airport.
“I don’t care where the medicine is,” he mutters, indicating there is something -- someone’s -- location he does care about.
The streetlamp illuminates Taekwoon’s dampened smile. They’ve said their goodbyes; Jaehwan’s put goodbye on every inch of Taekwoon -- (“It’s not goodbye,” he said.) -- but even if Taekwoon knows that this is what he’s signed up for, a life of leaving, he also signed up to defend those moments with Jaehwan, defend the quiet for everyone.
The street corner reminds Taekwoon of another one, and his smile turns fond at the memory of pulling close to share a first kiss.
“You have to promise me,” Jaehwan’s voice comes through, sounding muffled by a pillow, choked up. Smile falters. “Taekwoon, you have to promise.”
“…I promise.”
Dizzy on his feet, Taekwoon knows this is a hard one to keep.
The sun is starting to fall, but the heat is still like a wool blanket pressed around him. It’ll be a few more hours of steady light before he loses it, and then he’ll be lost in the dark. He’ll be good as dead. And that’s if he even makes it that long.
His head feels like it’s barely attached to his body, drooping and bobbing back up, drooping. But he fights.
Jaehwan flicks his eyes down to Taekwoon’s lips, hand stuffed in his deep coat pockets. He’s surely chilled in the weather, but he insisted he was up to coming out, that he wouldn’t catch a cold. Jaehwan’s always catching colds.
Taekwoon could bring up his hands, shaking hands, to cup Jaehwan’s jaw, pretty jaw, and draw him close -- he could bring those lips close.
The streetlight highlights the structure of Jaehwan’s facial structure and accentuates his shadows. He looks so much stronger than his immune system is, and Taekwoon’s caught thinking about that when probing fingertips poke at Taekwoon’s neck. Shivers run down his spine.
A crunch sounds as the soldier drops to the ground, unsettling the earth with a cloud of dust. Taekwoon shakes, shaking hands, as he holds his gun. His aim is shoddy in this state, but he managed to make the kill-shot. He was right -- it was only a matter of time before someone found him.
But he didn’t miss.
The body lays in the dirt, sporting wounds besides Taekwoon’s bullet in the skull, and he has to keep moving before he dwells on it.
“You’re beautiful,” Jaehwan whispers, lips hovering just over where Taekwoon wants them. “I-- Can I?”
“Please.”
Taekwoon summons up his training to keep a steady head and breathing. Now’s not the time to lose it. Keep moving, keep going. Juggling staying aware of his surroundings and focusing on not bleeding out is proving hard for Taekwoon, but he doesn’t stop.
Lips meet, and there’s a shy first kiss -- small, testing -- and then a second push, more sure. Jaehwan’s hands are cradling Taekwoon’s neck, nails digging in slightly. Taekwoon lets Jaehwan pepper his lips; he likes the way it feels to be held. He likes the way Jaehwan stands, feet apart, chest now leaning forward to get closer, shoulders up, and it’s like he’s shielding Taekwoon. From what -- Taekwoon’s not sure.
He zeroes in on one thing, training in on it. Pretty eyes gentle hands, words whispered in the dark. He can almost heart those words now, and he uses them as fuel. Stay alert, Taekwoon tells himself, stay…with it.
He’s losing. He can feel it.
That’s when he sees familiar colored uniforms, and he’s so close to help. He’s followed the path of bodies; he’s making his way back to…. Taekwoon’s knees give out, taking a dive to the ground, dirt coating his tongue. Tragic. So close. But Taekwoon hears voices coming closer, and maybe it’s not too late.
The world is on its side, and he shuts his eyes, not wanting this to be the last image imprinted on his eyes. There’s a picture in his pocket, and Jaehwan reanimates in Taekwoon’s head, laughing at the camera, saying not goodbyes from the bed, kissing him on dark city corners. This is better.
Hands on him -- help on the way -- it’s coming -- hold on -- so much blood -- just hold on, soldier.
“You promise me; you better.”
And Taekwoon’s holding on with both hands, gripping the edges of his fading vision to keep the dark from fading in. He’s gritting his teeth. He’s digging in.
“I promise.”
Jaehwan looks up from the vase of flowers on his table to the sound of his phone ringing. The flowers have started to wilt, their petals dropping onto tabletop, and he has one in his hand to look at the sad droop in the stem. Jaehwan tears his eyes away to scramble for his phone. It better not be another bill collector. It better not be--
Jaehwan’s blood runs cold in his veins. He knows this number. Dread tells him no, but he swipes the call through, answering with a tentative, “Hello?”
There’s a pause on the line, and Jaehwan is gripping the limp lily in his hand so tightly that his knuckles are stark white with his bones pushing against his skin.
“Hello?” He repeats it, urgent.
“Jaehwan?”
And he sighs at Taekwoon’s voice -- a voice weak from the drugs they’ve had to give him to take away the pain. He expected bad news, that he didn’t pull through, but the fact that Taekwoon called him is good. It’s good. But Jaehwan can’t loosen the grip on the flower.
Jaehwan doesn’t know what to say. Not because there’s nothing but because there’s everything. It’s a matter of what to say first.
While his lips tremble and he can feel his throat close up, Taekwoon steals his chance. “I’m coming home.”
Jaehwan cries into the phone.
Pairing: Ken/Leo
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1.9k
Warnings: blood, descriptions of death and war
Summary: A shred of goodness lives in Taekwoon's pocket.
a/n: based off the song "photograph" and this lovely edit~
Taekwoon collapses against the small wall of rubble. Rocks and shattered concrete mixed in with plaster dust braces him, legs weak and failing. His breathing is ragged; he breathes in the fumes of war -- dead air, blood, destruction -- and he tries to get full breaths into his lungs, his stomach on fire and burning worse each time his ribs expand.
Explosions are much too close for Taekwoon to be out of the battle. His gun is in the slack of one grip, the other hand in a desperate attempt to block up the hole in his middle. He expects someone, opposite colors, to round the corner and finish him. It’s a matter of when and not if.
Taekwoon’s uniform is tattered, burned in places; he barely missed the blast that destroyed the church. He followed the others -- the rest, what was left -- out, and they had crept around the enemy’s tank and trudged through ditches.
And straight into gunfire. Here is where it went wrong for Jung Taekwoon. One bullet in his abdomen, another in his thigh -- he went down. So many went down. Taekwoon remembers seeing the kid who was complaining earlier about “canned shit” for breakfast hit the dirt -- half his face pounded to mush. He tried to crawl to him, to get him up -- “We need to move,” Taekwoon shouted, throat sore, but it was swallowed by the noise.
The kid didn’t hear him anyways.
Taekwoon grits his teeth, mustering his strength and gathering it into a neat pile. All in check to use to rejoin his troop. He remembers the plan of where to go, where to meet up, and he tries to drag himself away from the pile, but he stumbles and crashes back against the debris. It’ll be slow going.
Grunting, Taekwoon digs his fingers even harsher against his uniform. Steady, he tells himself. But he’s scared. He’s put it off, but he’s letting in thoughts of what happens if he doesn’t make it back.
That can’t happen.
Taekwoon tightens the hand around the gun’s handle, fingers apprehensive to cooperate. He has to get out of here; he promised that. There’s a ball of frustration stuck in Taekwoon’s throat, pressing against the walls, pushing against his eyes.
There’s a picture, creased with lines of being unfolded and refolded too many times, in his chest pocket, over his heart. It’s a candid photo, one Taekwoon took to catch his subject unawares. Jaehwan looked at him last second, grin breaking through at the sight of Taekwoon being sneaky. Eyes crinkled, cheeks round with the spread of the smile, and Taekwoon can always hear the following laugh every time he opens the picture -- it always makes him smile.
The picture is what he thinks of now as blood oozes and escapes in frightening rivulets between his fingers.
“Hold the flower like that,” Taekwoon instructs, Jaehwan’s camera close by and ready to capture.
“What, like this?” Jaehwan puts the flower’s stem between his teeth and looks at Taekwoon from where he sits at the table. Flowers are scattered across the tabletop -- irises, lilies, stalks of green stems with white buds that Taekwoon doesn’t know the name for. They’re swallowing the space, and Jaehwan sifts through the elbows deep pile.
He removes the flower from between his teeth, sighing a bit. “I’ve no idea what she needs all these for. Is she handing them out in goodie-bags?” Jaehwan’s speaking of his soon-to-be sister-in-law, specifically of her impending wedding date and what she could possibly need with all of these flowers, but here they are on Jaehwan’s table.
Taekwoon’s hand creeps toward the camera as Jaehwan goes back to playing with the flowers, sorting them into piles. Shoulder of his shirt is slipping off, his lips poked into a silly expression, the cut of his profile enhanced next to the delicate flower’s head.
He wants the moment frozen.
Taekwoon takes a breath, scared suddenly for some reason, and holds it. His heart beats loud. Alright -- he brings the camera up; “Jaehwan.”
“J- Jaehwan,” Taekwoon splutters. The name comes up, unbidden, and he has to see him. Taekwoon doesn’t take the photo out; his hands are too busy to risk it now, doesn’t want his blood smeared across the glossy surface of Jaehwan’s smiling face.
Then there’s only one other way to see him.
Taekwoon drags his feet on the ground, gun dangling at his side. He trips and catches himself before tumbling to the dirt, but that’s a miracle.
Jaehwan would have plenty to say about the state he’s in. “What’d you go and do to yourself this time?” He’d say this after the danger’s passed but the fright’s still in his eyes. “You’re not supposed to get shot.” Maybe there would be a nudge on Taekwoon somewhere, gentle fingers that speak of Jaehwan’s worry prodding him. “You have to be careful.”
Taekwoon coughs, wheezing. Back -- he has to get back.
He passes the disfigured bodies of his brothers and sisters in arms; he tries to not look solely so he won’t see their pain, frozen on their faces. Taekwoon trudges on. He wonders if he’ll be lucky enough to survive.
“You better.” Jaehwan’s voice is firm on the phone, harsh crackle as he readjusts it to his ear. “Taekwoon, you….”
“Don’t--” Taekwoon can’t say “worry,” so he says, “forget to sleep. Also, your medicine’s on the counter.”
Jaehwan snorts, derisive, and Taekwoon leans against the light pole. His bus is late, and Jaehwan’s been on strict instructions to stay home. He’s barely well enough to be awake right now, and he didn’t need to make the trek to the airport.
“I don’t care where the medicine is,” he mutters, indicating there is something -- someone’s -- location he does care about.
The streetlamp illuminates Taekwoon’s dampened smile. They’ve said their goodbyes; Jaehwan’s put goodbye on every inch of Taekwoon -- (“It’s not goodbye,” he said.) -- but even if Taekwoon knows that this is what he’s signed up for, a life of leaving, he also signed up to defend those moments with Jaehwan, defend the quiet for everyone.
The street corner reminds Taekwoon of another one, and his smile turns fond at the memory of pulling close to share a first kiss.
“You have to promise me,” Jaehwan’s voice comes through, sounding muffled by a pillow, choked up. Smile falters. “Taekwoon, you have to promise.”
“…I promise.”
Dizzy on his feet, Taekwoon knows this is a hard one to keep.
The sun is starting to fall, but the heat is still like a wool blanket pressed around him. It’ll be a few more hours of steady light before he loses it, and then he’ll be lost in the dark. He’ll be good as dead. And that’s if he even makes it that long.
His head feels like it’s barely attached to his body, drooping and bobbing back up, drooping. But he fights.
Jaehwan flicks his eyes down to Taekwoon’s lips, hand stuffed in his deep coat pockets. He’s surely chilled in the weather, but he insisted he was up to coming out, that he wouldn’t catch a cold. Jaehwan’s always catching colds.
Taekwoon could bring up his hands, shaking hands, to cup Jaehwan’s jaw, pretty jaw, and draw him close -- he could bring those lips close.
The streetlight highlights the structure of Jaehwan’s facial structure and accentuates his shadows. He looks so much stronger than his immune system is, and Taekwoon’s caught thinking about that when probing fingertips poke at Taekwoon’s neck. Shivers run down his spine.
A crunch sounds as the soldier drops to the ground, unsettling the earth with a cloud of dust. Taekwoon shakes, shaking hands, as he holds his gun. His aim is shoddy in this state, but he managed to make the kill-shot. He was right -- it was only a matter of time before someone found him.
But he didn’t miss.
The body lays in the dirt, sporting wounds besides Taekwoon’s bullet in the skull, and he has to keep moving before he dwells on it.
“You’re beautiful,” Jaehwan whispers, lips hovering just over where Taekwoon wants them. “I-- Can I?”
“Please.”
Taekwoon summons up his training to keep a steady head and breathing. Now’s not the time to lose it. Keep moving, keep going. Juggling staying aware of his surroundings and focusing on not bleeding out is proving hard for Taekwoon, but he doesn’t stop.
Lips meet, and there’s a shy first kiss -- small, testing -- and then a second push, more sure. Jaehwan’s hands are cradling Taekwoon’s neck, nails digging in slightly. Taekwoon lets Jaehwan pepper his lips; he likes the way it feels to be held. He likes the way Jaehwan stands, feet apart, chest now leaning forward to get closer, shoulders up, and it’s like he’s shielding Taekwoon. From what -- Taekwoon’s not sure.
He zeroes in on one thing, training in on it. Pretty eyes gentle hands, words whispered in the dark. He can almost heart those words now, and he uses them as fuel. Stay alert, Taekwoon tells himself, stay…with it.
He’s losing. He can feel it.
That’s when he sees familiar colored uniforms, and he’s so close to help. He’s followed the path of bodies; he’s making his way back to…. Taekwoon’s knees give out, taking a dive to the ground, dirt coating his tongue. Tragic. So close. But Taekwoon hears voices coming closer, and maybe it’s not too late.
The world is on its side, and he shuts his eyes, not wanting this to be the last image imprinted on his eyes. There’s a picture in his pocket, and Jaehwan reanimates in Taekwoon’s head, laughing at the camera, saying not goodbyes from the bed, kissing him on dark city corners. This is better.
Hands on him -- help on the way -- it’s coming -- hold on -- so much blood -- just hold on, soldier.
“You promise me; you better.”
And Taekwoon’s holding on with both hands, gripping the edges of his fading vision to keep the dark from fading in. He’s gritting his teeth. He’s digging in.
“I promise.”
Jaehwan looks up from the vase of flowers on his table to the sound of his phone ringing. The flowers have started to wilt, their petals dropping onto tabletop, and he has one in his hand to look at the sad droop in the stem. Jaehwan tears his eyes away to scramble for his phone. It better not be another bill collector. It better not be--
Jaehwan’s blood runs cold in his veins. He knows this number. Dread tells him no, but he swipes the call through, answering with a tentative, “Hello?”
There’s a pause on the line, and Jaehwan is gripping the limp lily in his hand so tightly that his knuckles are stark white with his bones pushing against his skin.
“Hello?” He repeats it, urgent.
“Jaehwan?”
And he sighs at Taekwoon’s voice -- a voice weak from the drugs they’ve had to give him to take away the pain. He expected bad news, that he didn’t pull through, but the fact that Taekwoon called him is good. It’s good. But Jaehwan can’t loosen the grip on the flower.
Jaehwan doesn’t know what to say. Not because there’s nothing but because there’s everything. It’s a matter of what to say first.
While his lips tremble and he can feel his throat close up, Taekwoon steals his chance. “I’m coming home.”
Jaehwan cries into the phone.