this is where it splits in half honey, love or death (grab an end, pull hard and make a wish) [1/12]
Title: This is where it splits in half honey, love or death (grab an end, pull hard and make a wish)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jongdae centric, Jongdae/Sehun, side!Baekhyun/Chanyeol, hinted!Kai/Yeri and Suho/Krystal, mentionned!Seulgi/Irene
Wordcount: 103,662
Warning: post-apocalyptic settings, blood, murder, cannibalism, deaths
Disclaimer: EXO belongs to themselves and SME.
Notes: Originally posted here for chenpionships, for aprilclash. Title is taken from Richark Siken's Wishbone.
Summary: It's the butterfly effect: something blows up somewhere, and consequences swoop down on the world. Jongdae is left doing everything he can to survive until it takes everything from him.
Jongdae opens his eyes to faint colors painting the ceiling. There's an arm over his waist, and soft snoring breaking the silence, but Jongdae mostly pays attention to the pastel show above his head. He closes one eye, and pink displays in front of him, like warmer northern lights sparkling on the plaster. He closes his left eye and opens the right, and the pink turns into a mellow orange with a hint of flaming gold. He closes both of them, and the colors printed on the back of his eyelids couldn't be any more different. Crimson red and muddy brown swirl on his retinas, thick and slow like blood, and Jongdae tastes the ferrous taste that comes with it on the tip of his tongue.
He opens his eyes.
The sun is beginning its course down towards the horizon line, but one quick glance to his watch tells him he still has a bit of time before the night comes into play. His heart is beating slowly in his chest, mesured and under control, and it keeps the adrenaline at bay. He's done it many times before, but he knows better than to rush and take it all for granted. The world has become so unbalanced that a single stumble sends you over the edge. And then you're done. It takes one second to end a life, and Jongdae hasn't survived all this time to die just because he's been careless for a heartbeat. The day he'll let monsters catch him, it'll be with a loud bang that will blow up everything -and eyeryone- around him, he'll make sure of that. Until then, he'll keep surviving.
He glances at Luhan, still fast asleep next to him, and gently grabs his wrist. He folds Luhan's arm and puts it back on the latter's chest before slipping out of bed, tiptoeing across the room to gather his clothes. He slips into his pants, stopping every two seconds to throw a cautious look at Luhan, heart flying up his chest everytime the wooden floor cracks. You're almost there Jongdae, he internally chants to himself as he grabs his shirt. He considers it for a short second, face scrunching up with disgust as he takes in the dirt, the holes and the smell it radiates, before throwing it away and putting on Luhan's instead. It's a quick decision, everything is, so much that his thoughts snap in his head, whip lashes against his skull. Jongdae can't remember a time when thoughts were there for conscience and morals, when they sounded a little like his mother's voice, and were made of words.
Shoes on and backpack on his shoulders, Jondgae considers the room from where he's sitting on the edge of the window. His left leg is already outside, dangling in tempo with the seconds passing by. He frowns, eyeing Luhan's sleeping figure, the sharpness of his muscles and the web of veins on his hands and arms. Jongdae sighs, sligthly deflating as he goes back into the bedroom, not even blinking as Luhan fills his vision. He walks to the bed, almost silently despite the thickness of his soles, and finally stops right before Luhan.
The older man's eyebrows are furrowed, but he still looks fast asleep with his lips slightly parted on slow and regular low snores. Jongdae leans down, and slides his palm under Luhan's pillow. He moves it inches by inches, his eyes glued to Luhan's face, and by the time his fingers finally close on the object of his desire, his eyes are tearing up with the lack of blinking. One second of inattention, that's all it takes.
It feels like hours later when he finally pulls out the book from under the pillow. Pink and orange are still painting the walls though, even settling on Luhan's face, matching with his natural beauty, so there is still time. Another quick glance at his watch, and Jongdae hurries to the window again. He steps over its edge without any hesitation this time, and shoves the book into his backpack as he tiptoes on the eaves. Most people sleep with guns or knives under their pillows, but not Luhan. With his minions filling the house, ready to give their lives for their leader, he doesn't risk much. Luhan won't miss his book, and he wouldn't even have fully appreciated it anyway. Someone who bosses people around and has bodyguards sleeping on the wooden floor behind their bedroom door can't possibly enjoy great authors like Stephen King. Luhan would have missed half of the story, so really, Jongdae probably did him a favour in the end.
As for the ammo and the food he stole from Luhan and his minions, it's another story.
Jongdae makes sure the surroundings are safe before letting himself fall from the eaves. Travelling by day is dangerous, but the hour of daylight left will help him get a head start over Luhan's gang. He wouldn't even stand two minutes in close combat against Luhan, or any of his 'friends'. Jongdae usually fights with other weapons, obviously. He scratches the recent hickeys in his neck, the sensitive spots making his skin itchy and reaches inside his bag. His fingers close around a fragile and small tube that he pulls out. His blood has been getting hot inside of it, and its thick aspect makes Jongdae want to throw up. Disgusted, he opens the tube and pours the blood on the house's front steps, careful not to have the slighest drop splashing on his shoes. The smell assaults his nose, reminding him of crimson red and muddy brown patches on the back of his eyelids. He has to fight himself not to gulp down one of his water bottles to clean his tongue from the strong ferrous taste flooding his mouth. Now that the blood is out, he'll leave in less than a minute anyway.
Jongdae stretches his arm and turns the front door's doorknob. He waits after the slight click!, frozen and on the lookout for the smallest sound inside the house, but nothing comes. He leaves the door slightly opened, and jumps over the front steps. This will help kepping Luhan's team busy even more, and Jongdae-well, Jongdae will be out of their reach when they'll finally be able to hunt him down.
Him, and their supplies, ammos, and Luhan's book. Oh, and Luhan's shirt too.
The last sparks of sunlight feel like a knife grazing Jongdae's Adam Apple, and he has to restrain himself from running as fast as he can. It wouldn't be safe, because falling can happen so fast and the last thing he needs now is hurting himself and bleeding. It's one thing to know it though, and another to struggle against all his instincts screaming at him to run for shelter. Jongdae tries to avoid travelling by day as much as possible, they all do -he briefly wonders how many of them they stands for now- but Jongdae couldn't have run from Luhan's gang any other way. He's done it before, he reminds himself, and he's still alive. All he has to do is keep quiet, move and be careful. The sun is setting down, exploding in burning flames all over the sky above his head, and it'll be dark in no more than two hours now. You've done it before, he tells himself another time, like a mantra supposed to keep the nasty spirits at bay.
Nature has reassserted herself over the world, finally back at the top of the food chain. It had started with shy grass tufts falling over each side of the roads, as if they were testing the waters, but it was already long ago, or so it seems for Jongdae. The roads are now nibbled by the shadows thrown over them by long and knotted branches linked in some kind of roof above Jongdae's head, and the sight would be nice, if not for how suffocating it feels. They were so sure they were controlling the world back then, but it turned out that nature herself is as merciless as they were, and in the silence that has swallowed up the whole world, Jongdae can almost hear the trees growing up and taking more space, tiptoeing with sinister cracks towards places they couldn't reach before. At least, it means that something is still alive, still growing, and it's a small consolation prize, but it's one that Jongdae values: just like they weren't destructive enough to wipe out trees and grass from the surface of the earth, what's left of human kind, still sane and struggling or groaning and ripping flesh apart, won't win that battle against Mother Earth. In the end, they will all end as fertilizer and food for worms, immunes and infected.
Jongdae adjusts his backpack strip on his shoulder, scanning the forest left and right, and trying to hear everything that is not silence in the heavy stillness around him. He's so focused on the slighest sound -the wind ruffling through the leaves, his own breathing, his footsteps- that the sudden scream tearing the quietness has him startling with a gasp. He stops dead in his tracks and narrows his eyes at the trees on his left-where the sound came from. It's hard to believe it was silent not even ten seconds ago with the ruckus now echoing through the forest. Branches are cracking, gunshots are fired and people are screaming, begging. Jongdae stays in the silent part of the world, forcing himself to look away. There's nothing he can do except clenching his right fingers harder on his machete, and grabbing his gun with his free hand, hoping he's far enough not to stumble into another pack attracted by the slaughter and the heavy smell of blood.
Blood. Jongdae's heart jumps straight into the back of his throat. Is it possible that those are the Infected he was hoping to attract with the blood he splattered on the front steps of Luhan's shelter? Jongdae can tell they were heading towards the house, and they could have run into a clan on their way there. It doesn't change a thing though, Jongdae isn't a hero, he can't run over there, behead a few monsters and save everyone. He was a barman before the world and its rules got flushed down the universe's toilet, not a soldier or someone who had the slighest knowledge about weapons and martial arts. He's been stealing to survive, sometimes flashing white expenses of skin when it could help him. He's nothing like a hero, but it's a thing to unleash the Infected on Luhan and his gang, and another to cause the death of maybe a dozen of innocent people. What were they doing in broad daylight, anyway?
A few branches crack closer, jerking him out of his thoughts, and Jondgae breathes in a sharp intake of air. Adrenaline floods him, drowns him in instinctive decisions too fast for him to register them, and he quickly turns over and starts running.
It's not long before he hears someone running behind him, and the absence of jaws clicking and chattering over his shoulder tells him it's not an Infected. He doesn't slow down though, determined to put as much distance as possible between him and the pack of Infected, with or without the fast runner. So fast, actually, that the boy -because he doesn't look older than twenty years old?- is now running at his level, long limbs threatening to overtake Jongdae any minute now.
“Faster,” he urges Jongdae although he's obviously struggling to breathe, and finally reaches to grab Jongdae's hand.
The latter's pulls away, glaring at the boy whose naturally arched eyebrows shot up in surprise, before frowning with determination. He slows down to remain at Jongdae's level and glances over his shoulder to check if they are followed. Jongdae quickly imitates him, not trusting the boy a bit, and doesn't allow relief to slow him down even when he doesn't catch anything following them. They're still pretty close, still in danger, and running is all that matters now.
He catches the boy glancing with want at the forest on their right, and before he can stop himself, Jongdae furiously shakes his head, throwing his elbow against the boy's ribs to make sure he gets the message. Sure, the trees would help them shake off whoever -or whatever- could be following them, but they'll end up trapped in their own trick, unable to see further than the end of their noses. Night or not, the Infected won't let them go that easily if they are indeed behind them, and Jongdae's not willing to hand himself over on a silver plate.
Jongdae's gesture has obviously surprised the boy, who is now trying to catch his gaze, but Jongdae stubbornly avoids it. He shouldn't have elbowed the runner, should have just let him head into the forest, but maybe if he ignores him now, the boy will take the hint and turns right. It doesn't happen though, and although the boy stops trying to meet his eyes after a while, he still runs close to Jongdae, their legs now synchronized as they swallow meter after meter. Sweat is sliding down Jongdae's spine, gluing his bangs on his forehead and wetting his eyelashes until his eyes burn at the salty intrusion. He tries to take longer strides, to hop up and down more than he runs in the hope that it will reduce the burning sensation of his soles crashing against the asphalt and meeting the heat of the early summer days sticking down there. It doesn't, of course, but Jongdae quickly forgets the sliding of his feet in his slightly too large shoes in favor of the lack of air in his lungs and the black spots it's leaving in his vision. The boy running beside him huffs and puffs, grunting at the effort, but doesn't stop either, and they welcome the night and slightly cooler temperatures with fire licking at their muscles.
“You... please... stop... please,” the boy finally breathes out, his tan skin shining with a silver shade under the shy moonlight.
Jongdae barely spares him a glance as he speeds up, his body roaring at him at the effort. Adrenaline has left him an hour ago, but he's kept running because fear is an even more powerful doping substance, and Jongdae was running low on feelings of power, but he'll never get short on scary things. Like mud brown and thick crimson red painting the back of his eyelids, or the ferrous taste of blood turning his tongue into lead, like nature being beautiful and almighty and slowly covering what's left of human kind.
The boy stops running, and he takes in a sharp intake of air, as if he was drowning the second before. Jongdae looks over his shoulder and sees him bending, his hands shaking on his knees as he tries to catch his breath, his breathing erratic and whistling. Darkness engulfs him, closing its fangs on the lines of his slender silhouette first, and finally swallows him whole as Jongdae keeps running. He thinks about the few drops of his own blood splattered on the front steps of Luhan's house, and his body reacts before his mind, forcing him to turn around.
“Fuck,” he groans as he stops dead in his tracks. He pulls out his machete from his leather belt and trots back to the boy.
Alerted by the sounds of his footsteps, the boy straightens, his face breaking into a million-watt beam that quickly turns into a frown when Jongdae presses his blade against his throat.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, sharply, and the boy's frown deepens.
“What?”
“Hurt!” Jongdae repeats, trying to control the loud beating of his heart and his lungs swallowing in as much air as they can to keep a steady hand around his machete. “Are you hurt, are you bleeding?” he hurries the boy.
A flash of understanding goes through the latter's eyes, and he immediately shakes his head, raising his palms to prove his good faith. Jongdae's eyes narrow at him.
“Do you have any weapons?”
The boy sizes him cautiously before nodding shortly, pointing at his belt.
“Just a knife,” he says with his soft nasal voice. He doesn't sound as breathless as Jongdae anymore. “My clan and I, we got attacked. I ran without trying to gather my stuff.”
Jongdae wets his lips, his taste buds immediately reacting to the salty taste left by the perspiration, and the chappings on his lips burning even more with his saliva. He hesitates, only a short second, and steps up to body search the boy. He doesn't look as young this close, as the pale moonlight showcases his features in a different way. He has plump lips and a strong jaw, and the soft bump on the bridge of his nose stands out chiseled and sharper under the shadows. Jongdae expects some protests when he grabs the boy's knife and slides it between his belt and hipbone, but the boy flashes him a little smile instead. Jongdae snorts and makes sure his machete is still very threatening against the soft skin of the boy's neck before palming down the latter's pants.
“My name's Jongin,” the boy informs him.
“I don't care what your name is,” Jongdae groans. He steps back, his streched arm and the blade of his machete reflecting the moonlight still between him and the boy-Jongin. “Take off your shoes,” he orders.
Jongin nods, and immediately sits down on the lukewarm concrete to pull off his boots. Jongdae glances around them, his muscles itching to get going again despite the aftermath of their early run still burning them. Jongdae has seen some Infected wander in the dead of night before, and even though dark hours are usually safer, it's better to stay on the go. He looks down at Jongin and grabs his boots one after the other to check them. Jongin lets him do so, even pulling off his sockets to wriggle his toes at Jongdae, an eye smile threatening to take over his face. Jongdae glares at him, throwing his boots at him.
“Put them back on,” he snaps, and takes a few steps back for safety before sliding his machete back into his belt.
He warily eyes Jongin as the latter immediately obliges, pouting when he pulls his sockets back over the blisters his toes are sporting. He honestly doesn't look very dangerous, but Jongdae knows better. Most of the people he met probably thought the same thing about him, and all of them are surely regretting it now. Jongin is taller than him, with taut muscles pressing against the light material of his clothes. He moves as quickly as they all do but without any staccato, as if he was sliding in the air instead of cutting it with his body, and in a world as ugly as theirs, grace is a weapon. Grace can kill.
Jongdae takes another step back for good measure, and decides to put their stop at good use. He slides his bag on his shoulder and ruffles inside to find one of his bottles. He glances at Jongin again before opening it and gulping down three longs sips of water. The faint taste of bleach isn't as unpleasant as the temperature of the water flooding his mouth -summer is definitely fast approaching- but all in all, it washes away the dryness and the feeling of sandpaper rubbing against his tongue every time he breathes in. When he pulls away the bottle and looks back at Jongin, the latter is watching him expectantly, his eyes following the bottle in Jongdae's hand. He really doesn't look like a war machine like that, standing in the middle of the road with his long arms awkwardly dangling on his sides as he wets his lips, but more like a boy who grew up too fast. Jongdae shields himself against the hint of softness he can see on the boy's cheeks, as if his baby fat was still there a few weeks ago, and sends him a dark look.
“What?”
Jongin looks mildly embarrassed as he shrugs.
“Like I said, I had to leave without my stuff...” he trails on.
Jongdae narrows his eyes at the boy, only realising then that Jongin doesn't have a backpack or anything that looks remotely like it, and internally groans. He took a big risk with Luhan and his mercenaries, but what he stole them can last him a couple of months, and that was his only motive. Sharing with Jongin will reduce his efforts to nothing.
Yeah, a voice tells him, bitting and snarky. But if you hadn't chosen to fuck Luhan up in the ass today, Jongin would still be happily drinking his own water.
Jongdae sighs and throws his bottle at Jongin who catches it middair with a huge grin.
“It was kind of a happy coincidence that you were there, don't you think?” Jongin says a couple of hours later. “I haven't seen an Immune in like two months or so, and the minute I get separated from my group, pop you're there.”
Jongdae snorts. He saw a lots of Immune in the past two months, and Jongin should consider himself lucky he hasn't met one for so long. He doesn't say it aloud though, not wanting Jongin to feel like he wants to engage a conversation. He has to give the boy some credit though, because he's seen him glancing repeatedly at him for the past two hours, mouth opening on its own on questions he was probably dying to ask to finally close around his growing frustration. Jongdae expected Jongin to snap earlier, but two hours is a pretty decent amount of time. Doesn't mean he's going to indulge him, and start chatting though.
Jongdae has been alone for so long that walking with someone by his side feels weird, almost dangerous. He can control his own breathing, stop when he thinks he hears something and worry about the darkness engulfing his surroundings, but he has no control over Jongin's reactions. He doesn't know if the road on his right is secured or not, because Jongin is walking on his right, nor does he hear something over the sound of Jongin's breathing. Jongdae doesn't like how vulnerable it makes him feel. Jongin is a new addition in a routine that has kept him alive until then, and now that the equation has changed, Jongdae finds himself handling more unknowns than he can control, and he really doesn't like it.
“Thank you for letting me stay with you,” Jongin finally adds, his voice lower, heavier. Jongdae glances at him, curious because of the change, but he barely makes out Jongin's body lines in the night, so searching for his eyes is useless.
“We have a rule for situations like these,” Jongin continues. “If we get separated, we're supposed to meet in the last secured place we found.” He pauses. He's hesitating, Jongdae realises. He knows what the boy is about to ask him, and he also knows what he's going to say. “We're heading in the good direction, and it's like four days from here, but I don't have any food or water, and I've never been alone...”
“I'm not taking you there,” Jongdae cuts him.
He expects protests, but Jongin doesn't say anything. The atmosphere around them though, moist with the memory of the last spring days, stiffens, and Jongdae can feel Jongin's hard glare on him.
“We have a lot of food and weapons,” Jongin retorts. His voice has nothing left of hesitation, instead it stabs Jongdae's eardrums with determination. “They'll give you anything you want if you help me.”
Jongdae grabs Jongin by the arm to stop him, and now that they stand closer to each other, what's left of the moonlight once it went through the leaves above their heads finds them and settles shyly on their face.
“Are you buying my help?” Jongdae asks the other boy. “You don't know me. I would stab you in the back at the first occasion.”
“And you don't know me,” Jongin retorts. “You act as if I'd let you.”
Jongdae narrows his eyes at him, but Jongin looks unimpressed, now fully putting to use the numerous inches he has over Jongdae to tower him. Jongdae's hand clenches tighter around Jongin's arm, and his other hand hover over the handle of his machete. He's not sure if Jongin caught the gesture because the latter's eyes remain glued to Jongdae's, but they finally soften as he blinks a few times, the line of his shoulders slumping down as he lets out a sigh.
“Look” he says. “I've been with them since the very beginning, they'll be really grateful if you help me. We even have a few motorbikes, you could take one. We're not like the others, they won't hurt you, I give you my word.
Jongdae snorts. “The others? There are no others, kiddo. Just us, and the Infected. We're all the same, trust me.”
Jongin doesn't answer, but his eyes look at him, pleading and begging. Jongdae is tempted to believe the fact that Jongin has never been alone since it all went crazy because of how genuinely scared he looks right now. He doesn't even try to break free from Jongdae's grip, even leaning closer despite Jongdae's fingers now around his machete. The boy has no food, no water, and Jongdae took his only weapon. Left to his own devices, he would drop dead before reaching the meeting place of his group. But it's nothing more than a few speculations, and it all comes down to one thing in the end. One very simple thing: is Jongdae willing to bet his life on a bunch of assumptions?
It's the look flashing through Jongin's eyes when the latter starts shrinking on himself that does it. He seems to think that Jongdae will say no, that asking won't help him any more, and he finally breaks the eye contact to glance at the darkness all around them. The natural curve of his eyebrows has been turned upside down as Jongin takes in the road under their shoes and the utter silence, as he obviously struggles against the tears already wetting his eyes. There are no inches left, no determined and strong voice or long and deadly limbs, it's just a boy staring at the world and realising that it has grown fangs and that it will probably swallow him whole after breaking his bones one by one. Jongdae knows how weak the cold realisation is currently leaving Jongin, because he's been there, like everyone. The world doesn't make sense anymore, but somehow, Jongin hadn't fully realised it, and now he's finding himself naked and defenseless before the truth.
Jongdae sighs. That group of his must have done a pretty good job at protecting him until there.
“Jongdae,” he says, letting go of Jongin's arm. The latter throws him a questioning look. “My name's Jongdae.”
Jongin's plump lips open on a perfectly silent 'o'.
“Thank you!” he almost cries out in relief, before wincing and grabbing Jongdae's hand to squeeze it tightly. “Thank you,” he repeats in a whisper.
Jongdae flashes him the shadow of a smile, pulling his hand away and taking a step back for safety. Jongin doesn't seem a bit bothered by the slight distance between them as he straightens with a smile.
“So,” he says. “Shall we keep going?”
It's a shame, Jongdae thinks, that someone like Jongin had to be immune, because he's not cut out for the world like it is right now. He would have been better off caught by the airborne virus, and left with nothing more in his brain than a few basic instincts. It's not the most terrible thing to think about the boy, and it actually says a lot about the reality Jongin has to live in from now on. When he sees the trees linking their branches over the roads, he probably thinks it's beautiful while bunny hoping from one spot of light to another. How many times a day does Jongin check his whole body, heart beating erratically in his chest at the mere idea of finding a scratch? He's currently watching Jongdae, waiting for him to take the first step, as if the night was nothing more than a giant sheet of black velvet splattered with tiny but divine lights. Disillusion will catch him sooner or later, and it will rip his flesh apart, literally.
“Yeah,” Jongdae mumbles. “We need to find a shelter for the day.”
He gets going again, Jongin walking with his kind of dancing gait by his side. It's really not the most terrible thing to say about him, because the most terrible thing is that when rotted teeth will close on fresh flesh, Jongin will be on the wrong end.
At least, he does check the darkness on their right from time to time.
Jongdae opens his eyes to black weighing on him, and light flooding his peripheral vision. He's immediately attacked by a peak of panic, and his mind still hazy after a few hours of sleep only reacts in reflexes. His hand flies to grab the machete lying next to his waist, where it's easier to catch. It never gets there though, since his knuckles crash against something solid and unexpected. The pain thumping along his heart finishes to wake him up, and Jongdae remembers where he is with a groan.
He crawls out from under the bed, and quickly brings his hand closer to his face, allowing himself a sigh of relief when he sees the skin starting to bruise already, but no sign of blood tainting his knuckles. It was a stupid move, but at least he hasn't hurt himself. Just to make sure though, he walks on all fours towards the window and risks a glance outside. He doesn't catch anything that would suggest the presence of Infected, and they're usually quite loud, so it's all clear. Unless a lone Infected is hunting them right now, but without a pack, they're so easy to kill it's almost laughable. Jongdae doesn't make the mistake to feel safe though -he hasn't been in a over year- but he allows himself to breathe more easily.
He slides his machete back into his belt and gets back on his feet to reach the door. It's still locked like he's left it when he and Jongin reached the house early this morning. Incidentally, Jongin is the reason why Jongdae slept under the bed. He usually takes other precautions that at least allow him to enjoy a few hours of restorative sleep on a real mattress, but with the younger male sticking to his side, he couldn't be sure Jongin wouldn't attack him during the day. If so, he would have gone straight to the bed and found nothing inside, this way giving Jongdae a few precious seconds to wake up and fight back.
Jongdae refuses to dwell on the relief washing over him when it becomes obvious that Jongin didn't try anything while he was sleeping, and decides to take it as happiness to get to live through another day in hell. What a total blast.
He unlocks the door, and almost trips over a limp form curled up on the threshold of the bedroom. Jongin wakes up with a start, brandishing his fists in the emptiness before him with eyes hooded by sleep.
“What's going on,” he half-yawns, trying to look as threatening as possible. He blinks a few times, and perks his head up towards Jongdae, frowning. “Jongdae?”
Jongdae takes in the blankets arranged in a makeshift bed, Jongin's long limbs still tangled in the sheets and the latter's sleepy, swollen face, and the absurdity of it all has him chuckling. He's spent the night on the wooden floor under a bed, afraid that Jongin would come and cut his throat open in his sleep, while said Jongin was curling up against the door, like a puppy in the search of the warmth of his master. Jongin has made sure to keep a few steps between the two of them throughout the whole night, and Jongdae didn't have to step back a single time, but Jongin is obviously not as nonchalant about it as he made it look the night before.
Jongdae presses a palm against the wall for balance as he tries to no avail to muffle his chuckles, and Jongin shoots him a look somewhere between a glare and an embarrassed plea.
“I don't see what's so funny,” he mumbles. “You could have hurt me. What if I had bled, uh?”
“I would have left you behind and run for my life,” Jongdae snorts with a smile. It's not even half a lie, but he pretends it's nothing more than a joke. Jongin doesn't wince, only glares at him harder. “There are three other bedrooms though, you were the one being careless.”
Jongin finally gets back on his feet, the faintest hint of a blush still grazing his cheeks.
“I usually sleep with my friend, and it felt weird being alone,” he snaps back, pouting.
It's the first time Jongdae sees him in broad daylight and without any death threats running after them, but this Jongin isn't much different than the one he remembers. He's still the embodiment of paradoxes, with his slender silhouette, light and graceful even though he's just woken up, and the pout he's currently sporting from under too long bangs. He looks at Jongdae like Jongdae is the taller one, all broad shoulders and taut muscles ready to be used, but round cheeks matching with his nervous fidgeting. All in all, it's the only thing that finally stops Jongdae's chuckles, even though after so much time without laughing he was only starting to remember how nice it is, because there's nothing funny in the way Jongin is swinging his body left to right.
“Come on,” Jongdae groans, suddenly in a dark mood. “Get in there, you're going to show me your so-called meeting place on a map.”
Jongdae turns around and walks back into the room, grabbing his backpack on his way to the bed, Jongin on his trail. He puts his bag on the unmade bed, and rummages through it while Jongin curiously eyes the sheets carefully tucked on each side of the mattress. If he draws any conclusion from it, his face doesn't show, nor does he ask anything, soon back at watching Jongdae with the shadow of a smile perched on his lips. The latter finally closes his fingers on the stack of papers he was looking for, and he pulls it out of his bag with a satisfied groan. He unfolds it on the bed, displaying the whole territory of China in all its hugeness, with hundreds of tiny red characters showing cities and villages, and intricate and endless blue lines for the roads. Jongdae took it a few month ago when he reached China, in a tiny motel probably there only to welcome tourists, thus explaining the hangeul splattered all over the map. When he'll leave China, it'll be harder to find maps written in Korean, but Jongdae will have to do with English. If he does get to walk out of China, of course.
It takes him only a few seconds to spot their position, and he points it at Jongin.
“We're here,” he informs him. “Where do we have to go?”
Jongin leans down to take a closer look at the map, frowning. He bites his lip, and presses his finger index on a name, a few miles above their current position.
“You sure?” Jongdae asks him, and Jongin nods. “Well, that's definitely not four days from here. It'll take us six to seven days to get there, I think.”
At least, Jongin has the common sense to look embarrassed. He rubs his nape with his large palm, his eyes fleeing from Jongdae's gaze.
“Yeah...,” he stutters. “I'm sorry. Seulgi's the one in charge of maps in our group. I'm not good at this at all.”
No kidding.
“And what are you in charge of?” Jongdae asks.
“Food, mostly. I try to cook when we can, so it'd be a little more appetizing, you know.”
Jongdae shrugs, drawing back his attention on the map. He considers their new goal and the spot where Jongin's group was attacked.
“Where were you heading?” he says when he realises that Jongin's group was walking east. “Back to Korea?”
Jongin shakes his head and points at the south of Manchuria.
“Lyushunkou. We heard a radio message, there could be a boat full of survivors there.”
It's Jongdae's turn to shake his head. Lyushunkou had been a pain in the ass to get out of, because a few other groups of Immune caught that same radio message Jongin and his friends heard, and they all ran over there. One attack was enough to attract more Infected, and when they finally reached Lyushunkou, the city turned into a self-serve buffet for them. When Jongdae, attracted by the same hope than everyone before him, got there, so many Infected were still wandering in the streets that it was practically impossible to reach the harbor, let alone walk out of the city afterwards, even by night. He did it though, jumping from one roof to another, but aside from a strong smell of blood and nests of Infected every two meters, there was nothing.
“I went there,” he tells Jongin. “There were boats, but none of them with survivors inside. I reckon they weren't all immune, and a few of them caught the virus.”
Jongin slowly pulls his finger away from the red dot indicating Lyushunkou. He licks his lips and slowly shrugs.
“It's okay,” he says. “You'll tell Seulgi, and she'll lead us somewhere else. Probably west, to the European seaside. They were the farthermost countries, they probably had time to organise themselves.”
Jongdae seriously doubts it, but he doesn't tell Jongin. When that research complex exploded in Khabarovsk Krai last year, and the mist spread on hundreds of miles, swallowing Russia's west seaside, China and Japan's northern regions, the whole North Korea and a bit of South Korea as well, no one knew what was happening. Soldiers were sent straight into the thick white and reflecting mist, but none of them came back; as for the satellites, they were useless since they couldn't see through the almost solide looking brume. When it lifted, it was too late because the winds had already carried away the deadliest threat known in human kind history all around the world, and the unfortunate ones caught in the mist were already taking care of the few Immunes there. No one was prepared for that. The Misty Virus swooped on every country almost at the same time, rotting the oxygen and then the lungs of those who breathed it to finally reach their brains in less than twenty four hours, and with barely only ten percent of the population immune, no one got the time nor the means to organise themselves.
Jongin is watching him expectantly, reading Jongdae's silence in all the wrong ways. Jongdae can see the questions taking shape in Jongin's dark chocolate eyes, and he quickly looks away. They still have time before the sunset, and Jongin is the type to use it for bonding, but Jongdae doesn't want to. He doesn't care about Jongin, his group or the life he used to have when they weren't living in a post-apocalyptic movie, and mostly, he's not interested in having Jongin knowing all those things about him. He folds back the map, and pulls out two small bags of chips from his bag.
“Breakfast,” he says, throwing one of them at Jongin. The latter opens it with a look of pure glee on his face, like a kid on Christmas morning. Jongdae tries not to think about what he risked to steal it from Luhan.
“More like lunch time,” Jongin retorts with a grin before shoving a handful of chips in his mouth.
“Whatever,” Jongdae mumbles, putting the map back into his bag. “I'm going to search the house. We'll leave with the last rays of sunshine. Keep quiet in the meanwhile.”
Jongdae slides back his bag on his shoulders and glares at Jongin for good measure, before taking his own bag of chips and walking towards the door. Jongin's eyes follow him, making the skin on his nape itch with discomfort.
“Thanks for the food!” Jongin says, hesitant, just when Jongdae leaves the room.
Jongdae wants to say that he's only feeding him because Jongin promised he'll get back all the food he gave him in a few days, but he doesn't, and it leaves a knot in his stomach. Jongin hasn't even been with him for twenty four hours yet, and he's already changing so many things Jongdae never wanted to change again. He needs the boy to find back his group, and the sooner the better.
Jongin stays in the room, away from him, all day long, and Jongdae is really grateful.
1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jongdae centric, Jongdae/Sehun, side!Baekhyun/Chanyeol, hinted!Kai/Yeri and Suho/Krystal, mentionned!Seulgi/Irene
Wordcount: 103,662
Warning: post-apocalyptic settings, blood, murder, cannibalism, deaths
Disclaimer: EXO belongs to themselves and SME.
Notes: Originally posted here for chenpionships, for aprilclash. Title is taken from Richark Siken's Wishbone.
Summary: It's the butterfly effect: something blows up somewhere, and consequences swoop down on the world. Jongdae is left doing everything he can to survive until it takes everything from him.
Jongdae opens his eyes to faint colors painting the ceiling. There's an arm over his waist, and soft snoring breaking the silence, but Jongdae mostly pays attention to the pastel show above his head. He closes one eye, and pink displays in front of him, like warmer northern lights sparkling on the plaster. He closes his left eye and opens the right, and the pink turns into a mellow orange with a hint of flaming gold. He closes both of them, and the colors printed on the back of his eyelids couldn't be any more different. Crimson red and muddy brown swirl on his retinas, thick and slow like blood, and Jongdae tastes the ferrous taste that comes with it on the tip of his tongue.
He opens his eyes.
The sun is beginning its course down towards the horizon line, but one quick glance to his watch tells him he still has a bit of time before the night comes into play. His heart is beating slowly in his chest, mesured and under control, and it keeps the adrenaline at bay. He's done it many times before, but he knows better than to rush and take it all for granted. The world has become so unbalanced that a single stumble sends you over the edge. And then you're done. It takes one second to end a life, and Jongdae hasn't survived all this time to die just because he's been careless for a heartbeat. The day he'll let monsters catch him, it'll be with a loud bang that will blow up everything -and eyeryone- around him, he'll make sure of that. Until then, he'll keep surviving.
He glances at Luhan, still fast asleep next to him, and gently grabs his wrist. He folds Luhan's arm and puts it back on the latter's chest before slipping out of bed, tiptoeing across the room to gather his clothes. He slips into his pants, stopping every two seconds to throw a cautious look at Luhan, heart flying up his chest everytime the wooden floor cracks. You're almost there Jongdae, he internally chants to himself as he grabs his shirt. He considers it for a short second, face scrunching up with disgust as he takes in the dirt, the holes and the smell it radiates, before throwing it away and putting on Luhan's instead. It's a quick decision, everything is, so much that his thoughts snap in his head, whip lashes against his skull. Jongdae can't remember a time when thoughts were there for conscience and morals, when they sounded a little like his mother's voice, and were made of words.
Shoes on and backpack on his shoulders, Jondgae considers the room from where he's sitting on the edge of the window. His left leg is already outside, dangling in tempo with the seconds passing by. He frowns, eyeing Luhan's sleeping figure, the sharpness of his muscles and the web of veins on his hands and arms. Jongdae sighs, sligthly deflating as he goes back into the bedroom, not even blinking as Luhan fills his vision. He walks to the bed, almost silently despite the thickness of his soles, and finally stops right before Luhan.
The older man's eyebrows are furrowed, but he still looks fast asleep with his lips slightly parted on slow and regular low snores. Jongdae leans down, and slides his palm under Luhan's pillow. He moves it inches by inches, his eyes glued to Luhan's face, and by the time his fingers finally close on the object of his desire, his eyes are tearing up with the lack of blinking. One second of inattention, that's all it takes.
It feels like hours later when he finally pulls out the book from under the pillow. Pink and orange are still painting the walls though, even settling on Luhan's face, matching with his natural beauty, so there is still time. Another quick glance at his watch, and Jongdae hurries to the window again. He steps over its edge without any hesitation this time, and shoves the book into his backpack as he tiptoes on the eaves. Most people sleep with guns or knives under their pillows, but not Luhan. With his minions filling the house, ready to give their lives for their leader, he doesn't risk much. Luhan won't miss his book, and he wouldn't even have fully appreciated it anyway. Someone who bosses people around and has bodyguards sleeping on the wooden floor behind their bedroom door can't possibly enjoy great authors like Stephen King. Luhan would have missed half of the story, so really, Jongdae probably did him a favour in the end.
As for the ammo and the food he stole from Luhan and his minions, it's another story.
Jongdae makes sure the surroundings are safe before letting himself fall from the eaves. Travelling by day is dangerous, but the hour of daylight left will help him get a head start over Luhan's gang. He wouldn't even stand two minutes in close combat against Luhan, or any of his 'friends'. Jongdae usually fights with other weapons, obviously. He scratches the recent hickeys in his neck, the sensitive spots making his skin itchy and reaches inside his bag. His fingers close around a fragile and small tube that he pulls out. His blood has been getting hot inside of it, and its thick aspect makes Jongdae want to throw up. Disgusted, he opens the tube and pours the blood on the house's front steps, careful not to have the slighest drop splashing on his shoes. The smell assaults his nose, reminding him of crimson red and muddy brown patches on the back of his eyelids. He has to fight himself not to gulp down one of his water bottles to clean his tongue from the strong ferrous taste flooding his mouth. Now that the blood is out, he'll leave in less than a minute anyway.
Jongdae stretches his arm and turns the front door's doorknob. He waits after the slight click!, frozen and on the lookout for the smallest sound inside the house, but nothing comes. He leaves the door slightly opened, and jumps over the front steps. This will help kepping Luhan's team busy even more, and Jongdae-well, Jongdae will be out of their reach when they'll finally be able to hunt him down.
Him, and their supplies, ammos, and Luhan's book. Oh, and Luhan's shirt too.
The last sparks of sunlight feel like a knife grazing Jongdae's Adam Apple, and he has to restrain himself from running as fast as he can. It wouldn't be safe, because falling can happen so fast and the last thing he needs now is hurting himself and bleeding. It's one thing to know it though, and another to struggle against all his instincts screaming at him to run for shelter. Jongdae tries to avoid travelling by day as much as possible, they all do -he briefly wonders how many of them they stands for now- but Jongdae couldn't have run from Luhan's gang any other way. He's done it before, he reminds himself, and he's still alive. All he has to do is keep quiet, move and be careful. The sun is setting down, exploding in burning flames all over the sky above his head, and it'll be dark in no more than two hours now. You've done it before, he tells himself another time, like a mantra supposed to keep the nasty spirits at bay.
Nature has reassserted herself over the world, finally back at the top of the food chain. It had started with shy grass tufts falling over each side of the roads, as if they were testing the waters, but it was already long ago, or so it seems for Jongdae. The roads are now nibbled by the shadows thrown over them by long and knotted branches linked in some kind of roof above Jongdae's head, and the sight would be nice, if not for how suffocating it feels. They were so sure they were controlling the world back then, but it turned out that nature herself is as merciless as they were, and in the silence that has swallowed up the whole world, Jongdae can almost hear the trees growing up and taking more space, tiptoeing with sinister cracks towards places they couldn't reach before. At least, it means that something is still alive, still growing, and it's a small consolation prize, but it's one that Jongdae values: just like they weren't destructive enough to wipe out trees and grass from the surface of the earth, what's left of human kind, still sane and struggling or groaning and ripping flesh apart, won't win that battle against Mother Earth. In the end, they will all end as fertilizer and food for worms, immunes and infected.
Jongdae adjusts his backpack strip on his shoulder, scanning the forest left and right, and trying to hear everything that is not silence in the heavy stillness around him. He's so focused on the slighest sound -the wind ruffling through the leaves, his own breathing, his footsteps- that the sudden scream tearing the quietness has him startling with a gasp. He stops dead in his tracks and narrows his eyes at the trees on his left-where the sound came from. It's hard to believe it was silent not even ten seconds ago with the ruckus now echoing through the forest. Branches are cracking, gunshots are fired and people are screaming, begging. Jongdae stays in the silent part of the world, forcing himself to look away. There's nothing he can do except clenching his right fingers harder on his machete, and grabbing his gun with his free hand, hoping he's far enough not to stumble into another pack attracted by the slaughter and the heavy smell of blood.
Blood. Jongdae's heart jumps straight into the back of his throat. Is it possible that those are the Infected he was hoping to attract with the blood he splattered on the front steps of Luhan's shelter? Jongdae can tell they were heading towards the house, and they could have run into a clan on their way there. It doesn't change a thing though, Jongdae isn't a hero, he can't run over there, behead a few monsters and save everyone. He was a barman before the world and its rules got flushed down the universe's toilet, not a soldier or someone who had the slighest knowledge about weapons and martial arts. He's been stealing to survive, sometimes flashing white expenses of skin when it could help him. He's nothing like a hero, but it's a thing to unleash the Infected on Luhan and his gang, and another to cause the death of maybe a dozen of innocent people. What were they doing in broad daylight, anyway?
A few branches crack closer, jerking him out of his thoughts, and Jondgae breathes in a sharp intake of air. Adrenaline floods him, drowns him in instinctive decisions too fast for him to register them, and he quickly turns over and starts running.
It's not long before he hears someone running behind him, and the absence of jaws clicking and chattering over his shoulder tells him it's not an Infected. He doesn't slow down though, determined to put as much distance as possible between him and the pack of Infected, with or without the fast runner. So fast, actually, that the boy -because he doesn't look older than twenty years old?- is now running at his level, long limbs threatening to overtake Jongdae any minute now.
“Faster,” he urges Jongdae although he's obviously struggling to breathe, and finally reaches to grab Jongdae's hand.
The latter's pulls away, glaring at the boy whose naturally arched eyebrows shot up in surprise, before frowning with determination. He slows down to remain at Jongdae's level and glances over his shoulder to check if they are followed. Jongdae quickly imitates him, not trusting the boy a bit, and doesn't allow relief to slow him down even when he doesn't catch anything following them. They're still pretty close, still in danger, and running is all that matters now.
He catches the boy glancing with want at the forest on their right, and before he can stop himself, Jongdae furiously shakes his head, throwing his elbow against the boy's ribs to make sure he gets the message. Sure, the trees would help them shake off whoever -or whatever- could be following them, but they'll end up trapped in their own trick, unable to see further than the end of their noses. Night or not, the Infected won't let them go that easily if they are indeed behind them, and Jongdae's not willing to hand himself over on a silver plate.
Jongdae's gesture has obviously surprised the boy, who is now trying to catch his gaze, but Jongdae stubbornly avoids it. He shouldn't have elbowed the runner, should have just let him head into the forest, but maybe if he ignores him now, the boy will take the hint and turns right. It doesn't happen though, and although the boy stops trying to meet his eyes after a while, he still runs close to Jongdae, their legs now synchronized as they swallow meter after meter. Sweat is sliding down Jongdae's spine, gluing his bangs on his forehead and wetting his eyelashes until his eyes burn at the salty intrusion. He tries to take longer strides, to hop up and down more than he runs in the hope that it will reduce the burning sensation of his soles crashing against the asphalt and meeting the heat of the early summer days sticking down there. It doesn't, of course, but Jongdae quickly forgets the sliding of his feet in his slightly too large shoes in favor of the lack of air in his lungs and the black spots it's leaving in his vision. The boy running beside him huffs and puffs, grunting at the effort, but doesn't stop either, and they welcome the night and slightly cooler temperatures with fire licking at their muscles.
“You... please... stop... please,” the boy finally breathes out, his tan skin shining with a silver shade under the shy moonlight.
Jongdae barely spares him a glance as he speeds up, his body roaring at him at the effort. Adrenaline has left him an hour ago, but he's kept running because fear is an even more powerful doping substance, and Jongdae was running low on feelings of power, but he'll never get short on scary things. Like mud brown and thick crimson red painting the back of his eyelids, or the ferrous taste of blood turning his tongue into lead, like nature being beautiful and almighty and slowly covering what's left of human kind.
The boy stops running, and he takes in a sharp intake of air, as if he was drowning the second before. Jongdae looks over his shoulder and sees him bending, his hands shaking on his knees as he tries to catch his breath, his breathing erratic and whistling. Darkness engulfs him, closing its fangs on the lines of his slender silhouette first, and finally swallows him whole as Jongdae keeps running. He thinks about the few drops of his own blood splattered on the front steps of Luhan's house, and his body reacts before his mind, forcing him to turn around.
“Fuck,” he groans as he stops dead in his tracks. He pulls out his machete from his leather belt and trots back to the boy.
Alerted by the sounds of his footsteps, the boy straightens, his face breaking into a million-watt beam that quickly turns into a frown when Jongdae presses his blade against his throat.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, sharply, and the boy's frown deepens.
“What?”
“Hurt!” Jongdae repeats, trying to control the loud beating of his heart and his lungs swallowing in as much air as they can to keep a steady hand around his machete. “Are you hurt, are you bleeding?” he hurries the boy.
A flash of understanding goes through the latter's eyes, and he immediately shakes his head, raising his palms to prove his good faith. Jongdae's eyes narrow at him.
“Do you have any weapons?”
The boy sizes him cautiously before nodding shortly, pointing at his belt.
“Just a knife,” he says with his soft nasal voice. He doesn't sound as breathless as Jongdae anymore. “My clan and I, we got attacked. I ran without trying to gather my stuff.”
Jongdae wets his lips, his taste buds immediately reacting to the salty taste left by the perspiration, and the chappings on his lips burning even more with his saliva. He hesitates, only a short second, and steps up to body search the boy. He doesn't look as young this close, as the pale moonlight showcases his features in a different way. He has plump lips and a strong jaw, and the soft bump on the bridge of his nose stands out chiseled and sharper under the shadows. Jongdae expects some protests when he grabs the boy's knife and slides it between his belt and hipbone, but the boy flashes him a little smile instead. Jongdae snorts and makes sure his machete is still very threatening against the soft skin of the boy's neck before palming down the latter's pants.
“My name's Jongin,” the boy informs him.
“I don't care what your name is,” Jongdae groans. He steps back, his streched arm and the blade of his machete reflecting the moonlight still between him and the boy-Jongin. “Take off your shoes,” he orders.
Jongin nods, and immediately sits down on the lukewarm concrete to pull off his boots. Jongdae glances around them, his muscles itching to get going again despite the aftermath of their early run still burning them. Jongdae has seen some Infected wander in the dead of night before, and even though dark hours are usually safer, it's better to stay on the go. He looks down at Jongin and grabs his boots one after the other to check them. Jongin lets him do so, even pulling off his sockets to wriggle his toes at Jongdae, an eye smile threatening to take over his face. Jongdae glares at him, throwing his boots at him.
“Put them back on,” he snaps, and takes a few steps back for safety before sliding his machete back into his belt.
He warily eyes Jongin as the latter immediately obliges, pouting when he pulls his sockets back over the blisters his toes are sporting. He honestly doesn't look very dangerous, but Jongdae knows better. Most of the people he met probably thought the same thing about him, and all of them are surely regretting it now. Jongin is taller than him, with taut muscles pressing against the light material of his clothes. He moves as quickly as they all do but without any staccato, as if he was sliding in the air instead of cutting it with his body, and in a world as ugly as theirs, grace is a weapon. Grace can kill.
Jongdae takes another step back for good measure, and decides to put their stop at good use. He slides his bag on his shoulder and ruffles inside to find one of his bottles. He glances at Jongin again before opening it and gulping down three longs sips of water. The faint taste of bleach isn't as unpleasant as the temperature of the water flooding his mouth -summer is definitely fast approaching- but all in all, it washes away the dryness and the feeling of sandpaper rubbing against his tongue every time he breathes in. When he pulls away the bottle and looks back at Jongin, the latter is watching him expectantly, his eyes following the bottle in Jongdae's hand. He really doesn't look like a war machine like that, standing in the middle of the road with his long arms awkwardly dangling on his sides as he wets his lips, but more like a boy who grew up too fast. Jongdae shields himself against the hint of softness he can see on the boy's cheeks, as if his baby fat was still there a few weeks ago, and sends him a dark look.
“What?”
Jongin looks mildly embarrassed as he shrugs.
“Like I said, I had to leave without my stuff...” he trails on.
Jongdae narrows his eyes at the boy, only realising then that Jongin doesn't have a backpack or anything that looks remotely like it, and internally groans. He took a big risk with Luhan and his mercenaries, but what he stole them can last him a couple of months, and that was his only motive. Sharing with Jongin will reduce his efforts to nothing.
Yeah, a voice tells him, bitting and snarky. But if you hadn't chosen to fuck Luhan up in the ass today, Jongin would still be happily drinking his own water.
Jongdae sighs and throws his bottle at Jongin who catches it middair with a huge grin.
“It was kind of a happy coincidence that you were there, don't you think?” Jongin says a couple of hours later. “I haven't seen an Immune in like two months or so, and the minute I get separated from my group, pop you're there.”
Jongdae snorts. He saw a lots of Immune in the past two months, and Jongin should consider himself lucky he hasn't met one for so long. He doesn't say it aloud though, not wanting Jongin to feel like he wants to engage a conversation. He has to give the boy some credit though, because he's seen him glancing repeatedly at him for the past two hours, mouth opening on its own on questions he was probably dying to ask to finally close around his growing frustration. Jongdae expected Jongin to snap earlier, but two hours is a pretty decent amount of time. Doesn't mean he's going to indulge him, and start chatting though.
Jongdae has been alone for so long that walking with someone by his side feels weird, almost dangerous. He can control his own breathing, stop when he thinks he hears something and worry about the darkness engulfing his surroundings, but he has no control over Jongin's reactions. He doesn't know if the road on his right is secured or not, because Jongin is walking on his right, nor does he hear something over the sound of Jongin's breathing. Jongdae doesn't like how vulnerable it makes him feel. Jongin is a new addition in a routine that has kept him alive until then, and now that the equation has changed, Jongdae finds himself handling more unknowns than he can control, and he really doesn't like it.
“Thank you for letting me stay with you,” Jongin finally adds, his voice lower, heavier. Jongdae glances at him, curious because of the change, but he barely makes out Jongin's body lines in the night, so searching for his eyes is useless.
“We have a rule for situations like these,” Jongin continues. “If we get separated, we're supposed to meet in the last secured place we found.” He pauses. He's hesitating, Jongdae realises. He knows what the boy is about to ask him, and he also knows what he's going to say. “We're heading in the good direction, and it's like four days from here, but I don't have any food or water, and I've never been alone...”
“I'm not taking you there,” Jongdae cuts him.
He expects protests, but Jongin doesn't say anything. The atmosphere around them though, moist with the memory of the last spring days, stiffens, and Jongdae can feel Jongin's hard glare on him.
“We have a lot of food and weapons,” Jongin retorts. His voice has nothing left of hesitation, instead it stabs Jongdae's eardrums with determination. “They'll give you anything you want if you help me.”
Jongdae grabs Jongin by the arm to stop him, and now that they stand closer to each other, what's left of the moonlight once it went through the leaves above their heads finds them and settles shyly on their face.
“Are you buying my help?” Jongdae asks the other boy. “You don't know me. I would stab you in the back at the first occasion.”
“And you don't know me,” Jongin retorts. “You act as if I'd let you.”
Jongdae narrows his eyes at him, but Jongin looks unimpressed, now fully putting to use the numerous inches he has over Jongdae to tower him. Jongdae's hand clenches tighter around Jongin's arm, and his other hand hover over the handle of his machete. He's not sure if Jongin caught the gesture because the latter's eyes remain glued to Jongdae's, but they finally soften as he blinks a few times, the line of his shoulders slumping down as he lets out a sigh.
“Look” he says. “I've been with them since the very beginning, they'll be really grateful if you help me. We even have a few motorbikes, you could take one. We're not like the others, they won't hurt you, I give you my word.
Jongdae snorts. “The others? There are no others, kiddo. Just us, and the Infected. We're all the same, trust me.”
Jongin doesn't answer, but his eyes look at him, pleading and begging. Jongdae is tempted to believe the fact that Jongin has never been alone since it all went crazy because of how genuinely scared he looks right now. He doesn't even try to break free from Jongdae's grip, even leaning closer despite Jongdae's fingers now around his machete. The boy has no food, no water, and Jongdae took his only weapon. Left to his own devices, he would drop dead before reaching the meeting place of his group. But it's nothing more than a few speculations, and it all comes down to one thing in the end. One very simple thing: is Jongdae willing to bet his life on a bunch of assumptions?
It's the look flashing through Jongin's eyes when the latter starts shrinking on himself that does it. He seems to think that Jongdae will say no, that asking won't help him any more, and he finally breaks the eye contact to glance at the darkness all around them. The natural curve of his eyebrows has been turned upside down as Jongin takes in the road under their shoes and the utter silence, as he obviously struggles against the tears already wetting his eyes. There are no inches left, no determined and strong voice or long and deadly limbs, it's just a boy staring at the world and realising that it has grown fangs and that it will probably swallow him whole after breaking his bones one by one. Jongdae knows how weak the cold realisation is currently leaving Jongin, because he's been there, like everyone. The world doesn't make sense anymore, but somehow, Jongin hadn't fully realised it, and now he's finding himself naked and defenseless before the truth.
Jongdae sighs. That group of his must have done a pretty good job at protecting him until there.
“Jongdae,” he says, letting go of Jongin's arm. The latter throws him a questioning look. “My name's Jongdae.”
Jongin's plump lips open on a perfectly silent 'o'.
“Thank you!” he almost cries out in relief, before wincing and grabbing Jongdae's hand to squeeze it tightly. “Thank you,” he repeats in a whisper.
Jongdae flashes him the shadow of a smile, pulling his hand away and taking a step back for safety. Jongin doesn't seem a bit bothered by the slight distance between them as he straightens with a smile.
“So,” he says. “Shall we keep going?”
It's a shame, Jongdae thinks, that someone like Jongin had to be immune, because he's not cut out for the world like it is right now. He would have been better off caught by the airborne virus, and left with nothing more in his brain than a few basic instincts. It's not the most terrible thing to think about the boy, and it actually says a lot about the reality Jongin has to live in from now on. When he sees the trees linking their branches over the roads, he probably thinks it's beautiful while bunny hoping from one spot of light to another. How many times a day does Jongin check his whole body, heart beating erratically in his chest at the mere idea of finding a scratch? He's currently watching Jongdae, waiting for him to take the first step, as if the night was nothing more than a giant sheet of black velvet splattered with tiny but divine lights. Disillusion will catch him sooner or later, and it will rip his flesh apart, literally.
“Yeah,” Jongdae mumbles. “We need to find a shelter for the day.”
He gets going again, Jongin walking with his kind of dancing gait by his side. It's really not the most terrible thing to say about him, because the most terrible thing is that when rotted teeth will close on fresh flesh, Jongin will be on the wrong end.
At least, he does check the darkness on their right from time to time.
Jongdae opens his eyes to black weighing on him, and light flooding his peripheral vision. He's immediately attacked by a peak of panic, and his mind still hazy after a few hours of sleep only reacts in reflexes. His hand flies to grab the machete lying next to his waist, where it's easier to catch. It never gets there though, since his knuckles crash against something solid and unexpected. The pain thumping along his heart finishes to wake him up, and Jongdae remembers where he is with a groan.
He crawls out from under the bed, and quickly brings his hand closer to his face, allowing himself a sigh of relief when he sees the skin starting to bruise already, but no sign of blood tainting his knuckles. It was a stupid move, but at least he hasn't hurt himself. Just to make sure though, he walks on all fours towards the window and risks a glance outside. He doesn't catch anything that would suggest the presence of Infected, and they're usually quite loud, so it's all clear. Unless a lone Infected is hunting them right now, but without a pack, they're so easy to kill it's almost laughable. Jongdae doesn't make the mistake to feel safe though -he hasn't been in a over year- but he allows himself to breathe more easily.
He slides his machete back into his belt and gets back on his feet to reach the door. It's still locked like he's left it when he and Jongin reached the house early this morning. Incidentally, Jongin is the reason why Jongdae slept under the bed. He usually takes other precautions that at least allow him to enjoy a few hours of restorative sleep on a real mattress, but with the younger male sticking to his side, he couldn't be sure Jongin wouldn't attack him during the day. If so, he would have gone straight to the bed and found nothing inside, this way giving Jongdae a few precious seconds to wake up and fight back.
Jongdae refuses to dwell on the relief washing over him when it becomes obvious that Jongin didn't try anything while he was sleeping, and decides to take it as happiness to get to live through another day in hell. What a total blast.
He unlocks the door, and almost trips over a limp form curled up on the threshold of the bedroom. Jongin wakes up with a start, brandishing his fists in the emptiness before him with eyes hooded by sleep.
“What's going on,” he half-yawns, trying to look as threatening as possible. He blinks a few times, and perks his head up towards Jongdae, frowning. “Jongdae?”
Jongdae takes in the blankets arranged in a makeshift bed, Jongin's long limbs still tangled in the sheets and the latter's sleepy, swollen face, and the absurdity of it all has him chuckling. He's spent the night on the wooden floor under a bed, afraid that Jongin would come and cut his throat open in his sleep, while said Jongin was curling up against the door, like a puppy in the search of the warmth of his master. Jongin has made sure to keep a few steps between the two of them throughout the whole night, and Jongdae didn't have to step back a single time, but Jongin is obviously not as nonchalant about it as he made it look the night before.
Jongdae presses a palm against the wall for balance as he tries to no avail to muffle his chuckles, and Jongin shoots him a look somewhere between a glare and an embarrassed plea.
“I don't see what's so funny,” he mumbles. “You could have hurt me. What if I had bled, uh?”
“I would have left you behind and run for my life,” Jongdae snorts with a smile. It's not even half a lie, but he pretends it's nothing more than a joke. Jongin doesn't wince, only glares at him harder. “There are three other bedrooms though, you were the one being careless.”
Jongin finally gets back on his feet, the faintest hint of a blush still grazing his cheeks.
“I usually sleep with my friend, and it felt weird being alone,” he snaps back, pouting.
It's the first time Jongdae sees him in broad daylight and without any death threats running after them, but this Jongin isn't much different than the one he remembers. He's still the embodiment of paradoxes, with his slender silhouette, light and graceful even though he's just woken up, and the pout he's currently sporting from under too long bangs. He looks at Jongdae like Jongdae is the taller one, all broad shoulders and taut muscles ready to be used, but round cheeks matching with his nervous fidgeting. All in all, it's the only thing that finally stops Jongdae's chuckles, even though after so much time without laughing he was only starting to remember how nice it is, because there's nothing funny in the way Jongin is swinging his body left to right.
“Come on,” Jongdae groans, suddenly in a dark mood. “Get in there, you're going to show me your so-called meeting place on a map.”
Jongdae turns around and walks back into the room, grabbing his backpack on his way to the bed, Jongin on his trail. He puts his bag on the unmade bed, and rummages through it while Jongin curiously eyes the sheets carefully tucked on each side of the mattress. If he draws any conclusion from it, his face doesn't show, nor does he ask anything, soon back at watching Jongdae with the shadow of a smile perched on his lips. The latter finally closes his fingers on the stack of papers he was looking for, and he pulls it out of his bag with a satisfied groan. He unfolds it on the bed, displaying the whole territory of China in all its hugeness, with hundreds of tiny red characters showing cities and villages, and intricate and endless blue lines for the roads. Jongdae took it a few month ago when he reached China, in a tiny motel probably there only to welcome tourists, thus explaining the hangeul splattered all over the map. When he'll leave China, it'll be harder to find maps written in Korean, but Jongdae will have to do with English. If he does get to walk out of China, of course.
It takes him only a few seconds to spot their position, and he points it at Jongin.
“We're here,” he informs him. “Where do we have to go?”
Jongin leans down to take a closer look at the map, frowning. He bites his lip, and presses his finger index on a name, a few miles above their current position.
“You sure?” Jongdae asks him, and Jongin nods. “Well, that's definitely not four days from here. It'll take us six to seven days to get there, I think.”
At least, Jongin has the common sense to look embarrassed. He rubs his nape with his large palm, his eyes fleeing from Jongdae's gaze.
“Yeah...,” he stutters. “I'm sorry. Seulgi's the one in charge of maps in our group. I'm not good at this at all.”
No kidding.
“And what are you in charge of?” Jongdae asks.
“Food, mostly. I try to cook when we can, so it'd be a little more appetizing, you know.”
Jongdae shrugs, drawing back his attention on the map. He considers their new goal and the spot where Jongin's group was attacked.
“Where were you heading?” he says when he realises that Jongin's group was walking east. “Back to Korea?”
Jongin shakes his head and points at the south of Manchuria.
“Lyushunkou. We heard a radio message, there could be a boat full of survivors there.”
It's Jongdae's turn to shake his head. Lyushunkou had been a pain in the ass to get out of, because a few other groups of Immune caught that same radio message Jongin and his friends heard, and they all ran over there. One attack was enough to attract more Infected, and when they finally reached Lyushunkou, the city turned into a self-serve buffet for them. When Jongdae, attracted by the same hope than everyone before him, got there, so many Infected were still wandering in the streets that it was practically impossible to reach the harbor, let alone walk out of the city afterwards, even by night. He did it though, jumping from one roof to another, but aside from a strong smell of blood and nests of Infected every two meters, there was nothing.
“I went there,” he tells Jongin. “There were boats, but none of them with survivors inside. I reckon they weren't all immune, and a few of them caught the virus.”
Jongin slowly pulls his finger away from the red dot indicating Lyushunkou. He licks his lips and slowly shrugs.
“It's okay,” he says. “You'll tell Seulgi, and she'll lead us somewhere else. Probably west, to the European seaside. They were the farthermost countries, they probably had time to organise themselves.”
Jongdae seriously doubts it, but he doesn't tell Jongin. When that research complex exploded in Khabarovsk Krai last year, and the mist spread on hundreds of miles, swallowing Russia's west seaside, China and Japan's northern regions, the whole North Korea and a bit of South Korea as well, no one knew what was happening. Soldiers were sent straight into the thick white and reflecting mist, but none of them came back; as for the satellites, they were useless since they couldn't see through the almost solide looking brume. When it lifted, it was too late because the winds had already carried away the deadliest threat known in human kind history all around the world, and the unfortunate ones caught in the mist were already taking care of the few Immunes there. No one was prepared for that. The Misty Virus swooped on every country almost at the same time, rotting the oxygen and then the lungs of those who breathed it to finally reach their brains in less than twenty four hours, and with barely only ten percent of the population immune, no one got the time nor the means to organise themselves.
Jongin is watching him expectantly, reading Jongdae's silence in all the wrong ways. Jongdae can see the questions taking shape in Jongin's dark chocolate eyes, and he quickly looks away. They still have time before the sunset, and Jongin is the type to use it for bonding, but Jongdae doesn't want to. He doesn't care about Jongin, his group or the life he used to have when they weren't living in a post-apocalyptic movie, and mostly, he's not interested in having Jongin knowing all those things about him. He folds back the map, and pulls out two small bags of chips from his bag.
“Breakfast,” he says, throwing one of them at Jongin. The latter opens it with a look of pure glee on his face, like a kid on Christmas morning. Jongdae tries not to think about what he risked to steal it from Luhan.
“More like lunch time,” Jongin retorts with a grin before shoving a handful of chips in his mouth.
“Whatever,” Jongdae mumbles, putting the map back into his bag. “I'm going to search the house. We'll leave with the last rays of sunshine. Keep quiet in the meanwhile.”
Jongdae slides back his bag on his shoulders and glares at Jongin for good measure, before taking his own bag of chips and walking towards the door. Jongin's eyes follow him, making the skin on his nape itch with discomfort.
“Thanks for the food!” Jongin says, hesitant, just when Jongdae leaves the room.
Jongdae wants to say that he's only feeding him because Jongin promised he'll get back all the food he gave him in a few days, but he doesn't, and it leaves a knot in his stomach. Jongin hasn't even been with him for twenty four hours yet, and he's already changing so many things Jongdae never wanted to change again. He needs the boy to find back his group, and the sooner the better.
Jongin stays in the room, away from him, all day long, and Jongdae is really grateful.
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