Acts of Contrition (10/20)

[rawthorne]

Chapter 10

He wakes in warmth, on his stomach with his head pillowed on tangled sheets. There’s heat stretched along his back, heavy with sleep, and Changmin takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, things are clearer, if no less confusing, a dark gaze watching him from mere inches away.

Changmin swallows hard as fingers trace over his lips, a smile curving that sinful mouth.

“What time is it?” he asks in a sleep-roughened voice, fingers splayed against the mattress. It’s dark still, soft light pouring from the high, angular windows.

“Early,” Jaejoong replies, not ceasing his slow touches, pushing a hand through Changmin’s cropped hair. “Is he crushing you?”

Yoochun. Curled into him with his head resting between his shoulder blades, like an overgrown child. It seems surreal. Unsettling. Jaejoong’s thumb brushes over his temple, regaining his attention.

“He’s fine,” Changmin manages to get out, letting his eyes close, the reality of this hitting him from all sides. He slept with them. How in the hell could that have happened? What is wrong with him?

A soft press of lips to his, knuckles brushing over his cheekbone. “Stop thinking, dongsaeng. It’s too early in the morning to punish yourself.”

Changmin lets out a choked noise, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes. “I miss him,” he whispers, and it wasn’t what he’d meant to say, not at all.

“Forget him,” comes the gentle encouragement. The rest of the sentence lies unspoken. He’s forgotten you.

He takes a shuddering breath, not opening his eyes until he’s sure he’s regained the shreds of his composure.  “What now?”

Jaejoong shifts closer, all china-white skin and dark, plaintive eyes, sliding a leg between Changmin’s. “Now,” he whispers. “We get that great snoring lump off you and wake up a little more nicely.” He smiles, and the action changes his face, makes him look years younger than Changmin knows he is, even as a hand comes up to cover the expression.

Yoochun shifts along his length, as if he knows he’s being spoken of, murmuring something unintelligible in Changmin’s ear and he feels like laughing, because this is insane. Men who he was taught to believe were savage, no better than bloodthirsty dogs, are curled around him, boyish and bare-skinned and he thinks of tales of lost, forgotten children who never grow up.

He lets Jaejoong kiss him; lets Yoochun press his mouth sleepily to his ears, to his neck, warm, strong hands keeping his hips in place. Lets them take him, lets himself gasp out their names, muffled into a pillow.

Lets go.

Afterwards, they don’t follow him into the shower, something which both disappoints and relieves him. The former because its easier to make his peace with betrayal when enveloped in their heady persuasion. The latter…because he needs a clear head.

He ducks his head under the hot spray, feeling it wash away the grime of the past days, feeling himself edge that much closer to human. A soft moan sounds from the adjacent room and he turns the water to cold, shivering but welcoming the shock.

He is a deserter. A traitor as surely as if he’d landed with intent to join up. The means are nothing in comparison to the end, and the end is that he let filthy rebel scum touch him. That he enjoyed it. That he still wanted them.

The shame is hot under his skin and his turns the warm water off completely, hoping to shock the feeling out of his system. It only leaves him shivering, hand smacking against the wall of the cubicle, turning off the knobs and moving to dry.

They are waiting for him, Yoochun’s head pillowed on Jaejoong’s stomach, sleepy and sloe-eyed. Jaejoong strokes fingers through his hair, looking up at Changmin lazily. Lounging, as if they have all the time in the world.

No discipline, Changmin thinks, but can’t bring himself to feel scorn.

“Has anyone told you how beautiful you are, dongsaeng?”

Heat in his face, he snorts, reaching for his trousers and grabbing them off of the floor. “I’m not a woman, Jaejoong. I don’t need flattery.”

A soft hum of agreement from the bed before accented tones refute him. “Nonsense.” A tilt of the head, dark hair fanning out on issued white sheets. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Gritting his teeth, because he doesn’t see how any of these trivial things matter, he nods shortly. “Yes.”

A sweet smile. “And Chunnie here, isn’t he handsome?”

Not a word he would’ve thought to describe the man when cruel fingers wrenched scream after scream from him. But now, watching the other man blink up at him from under heavy bangs, he nods again, a soft sigh parting his lips. “Yes.”

Jaejoong seems satisfied. “It’s always nice to hear, dongsaeng. We’ll have to tell you more.”

He tries his best to ignore the other man, dressing and moving to look out the window, unsure what liberty he has to roam the base, feeling hunger gnaw at his stomach. He watches their reflection in the thick pane of glass, watches Yoochun shift until he’s laying over Jaejoong, stroking his hair and whispering to him in their native tongue.

They make his chest ache and he closes his eyes, trying not to think on it.

Finally, they shower and dress, and he follows them to the mess, hovering protectively over his rations, trying not to feel like every eye in the hall is on him. Trying not to let the anxiety of being so outnumbered get to him.

He trails them like a lost pup, reluctant to break away from their safety net lest it lands him back in a cell. Yoochun informs him in a gruff voice, so different than the one he uses with Jaejoong, that they are taking a speeder to the spaceport for trades, and not to get any ideas.

Changmin bites back a retort. The only ships leaving this rock are smugglers or rebels, he’s sure. How fucking far would he get? Steal a fighter and they’d have him shot down in minutes.

But unlike the threats barked at him only days before, this is accompanied by a soft touch to the wrist, Yoochun’s fingers warm and calloused against his skin.

The heat is unbearable as always, the whipping air the landspeeder creates doing little to ease the atmosphere’s suffocating press. He gulps greedily at the water Jaejoong passes him, ignoring the man’s reassurances that he will adjust to the climate in time.

As they move through the forested landscape, Changmin lets his eyes rest on the ink crawling down Yoochun’s right arm. Complicated twists and turns; foreign symbols that he can’t make sense of. It’s not a practice he’s seen done; inking is banned in the Guard, and he was sheltered enough in his years at home and in the Academy to have never visited the seedier places where men saw fit to mark themselves.

There are more, he knows. Imprinted on Yoochun’s lower back, between the blades of Jaejoong’s shoulders. He knows what they say, but doesn’t understand. Doesn’t get why they need to have embedded in their skin what’s clear in every action.

“What do they mean?” he asks suddenly, nodding to the markings, raising his voice to be heard over the rush of the wind.

“Marks of Trial,” Yoochun replies, gaze staying ahead of them as he weaves through the trees. “Each one is a sacrifice made for a greater purpose. They twist together to show many sacrifices for a single goal.”

Jaejoong shifts to sit beside him, leaning in so Changmin can hear him speak more clearly. “They remind you of your purpose. To remember what you’ve lost for a prize only makes it sweeter when attained.”

Changmin hesitates. Locks their eyes. “Where are yours?”

Something quiets in Jaejoong’s gaze, withdrawing as he looks away.

“My scars are Yoochun’s. He bears enough for both of us.” A slight tightening of a fine-boned jaw. “His are enough to fight for.”

He swallows hard, reaching up to brush his fingers over the ink Jaejoong’s shirt hides. “And these?”

A smile flits to soft, pink lips. “The opposite. They remind us what can never be sacrificed. We bear each other’s mark. Even in death, we belong to no other.”

Yoochun’s abrupt “We’re here,” breaks the spell Jaejoong is holding him in, and Changmin blinks, looking around the tiny spaceport before climbing out of the landspeeder with them. Yoochun slings a pack over his shoulders, gun at his hip, nodding at Jaejoong.

“Stay here with him. I’ll see if we can’t get a decent price for this shit.”

He heads towards one of the few vendors that litter the area, Changmin turning to Jaejoong, curious. “What’s he selling?”

A tilt of the head. “Trinkets. Trophies.”

His gun, his uniform and his comlink, in other words, Changmin realizes, anger flitting over his features. A soft touch to his shoulder and he nearly shrugs it off, but doesn’t, jaw tight.

“You’re one of us now, dongsaeng. You don’t need them.”

One of them. If that’s so, why can he still look into the crowd and see Yunho’s face? Why can’t he just let him go?

He nods quietly, relaxing under Jaejoong’s touch.

“I don’t need them.”

***

For all their willingness to sell their goods, the tradesmen on this part of Elysia are less than forthcoming about how they came by them, especially when it comes to explaining how one comes to be in possession of Imperial Guard artefacts. Soldiers don’t just disrobe and throw their garments away, not after slaving through three years of Academy training and many more on battleships in a time of war.

“We don’t care if you hacked up a pilot to pieces to get it,” Yunho presses, clutching the soft fabric, worn thin with time, with acidic detergents. “We just want to know where you got it from.” They were going to be restocked in everything but flightsuits, once they went home for repairs. It’s only too bad that neither Yunho nor Junsu, nor even Changmin will get to wear the Imperial Guard seal ever again.

The man darts a nervous look from one to the other and back down to the uniform. “How do I know you’re not law enforcement? I tell you my suppliers, I get the blame for the whole operation.”

“Do we look like law enforcement?” Junsu sighs, arching a disbelieving eyebrow. “Come on, just tell him so he’ll let us get out of the sun.” They’ve been standing under the strong UV rays for so long their skin must be turning purple. Surely when the merchant set up, he didn’t expect his customers to have such strong wills.

Except of course, what they’re bargaining for is far more important than credits.

Junsu’s entreaty, whether sincere or not, does its trick. The tradesman sighs, beckons them to round the stall into shadow. Strangely, their boots make hissing sounds on the ground.

“Way the economy works on this rock is the fleet ignores us and we ignore it.” Pointing to a gloomy-looking building with its shutters all drawn closed, the man pursues: “That’s the guv’nor’s offices right there. Been shut like that since winter. Either he’s dead or he ain’t around. We haven’t been getting any shipments of rations or equipment…”

“So you trade on the black market,” Yunho finishes for him, ignoring, for now, this bleak picture of the Guard’s involvement in the lives of civilians.

An uneasy nod before the man’s lips purse together into a thin line. “Smugglers, mostly.”

Junsu waves their credits at him. The effect is immediate when greed overrules reason.

“Sometimes these boys come into town from up north, from the jungle. They got landspeeders and a whole supply of shit they want no money for.” The merchant grins, oblivious to his slip as he points to the faded uniform. “Got them a plasma charger for this pretty lil’ thing.”

Yunho grits his teeth. Angers wells up inside him. Rebels. Rebels got Changmin and defiled his corpse for bounty.

“Why don’t your people live in the forest?” Junsu’s voice cuts through the rush of blood in his ears. “It’s gotta be cooler than out here, right?”

“Cooler it is, but those boys out there? They’re playing against the Gods. There’s evil in that forest. Ghosts and such.” The merchant shakes his head, puffs up his cheeks and glances away from them to his assorted treasures. “Guard got us this land and we’ll stick to it, thank you very much. Now, are you going to buy that suit or not?”

“Not.”

“But...”

Yunho ignores his protests, grabbing Junsu’s arm. “We need a landspeeder and we need to get into those trees.”

Junsu doesn’t contradict his logic. “Spaceport?”

“Spaceport.”

It’s a risky business to be going into the dragon’s den armed with a lasergun and too few credits, but it’s daylight still, though the sun is already waning in the sky. Security is bound to be lax, if the same rules apply here as in town. If nothing else, the crews should be indoors, tinkering on their vessels or getting some sleep.

In a different light, the docks might even look imposing. As it is, when Yunho and Junsu get there, out of breath and sweating profusely, the aluminium-enforced walls do little to amplify the magnitude of a hangar barely half the size of the Acheron’s lower decks. Sunlight reflects off of the metal successfully, though, and it takes Yunho’s coarse palms to open one of the sidedoors.

Smashing the lock with the butt of his gun, Junsu recoils against the pain, his cry of pain muffled to a hiss. Silence is second nature, even when it might not be necessary.

“Let me do it,” Yunho suggests, dragging his sleeves over his hands. It’s poor cover for the scorching heat of metal, but he’s put up with worse. Fire drives the soul into the hands of the Gods. Pain is nothing if you have faith. Beyond all else, it built his character, if nothing else.

The door gives easily under his hands, swinging forward into immediate cool air.

“You work in the mines on Attica when you were a kid?” Junsu snorts, wiping sweat from his brow. “Show off.”

There’s no point in correcting him. No time, either, if Yunho is right about the backward existence of people on this rock. A couple of hours left and then it’ll be party time again. The plan is not to stick around for that.

Spaceports are unfamiliar places to pilots. The only time they set foot in one is in times of crisis. Forced landings and resupplying are the rare occasions when they find themselves grounded-and such occasions are usually best dealt with through copious amounts of alcohol. Earth bound is a prison term, not a reprieve. The skies hold a pilot’s livelihood and his existence. On the ground, he’s out of his element.

“Big ships, small ships…” Junsu recites, watching a panel on the side of a pillar. It’s their only indication; probably the only one to be had in this dump. “I don’t see landspeeders anywhere.”

Eerie silence surrounds them.

“They’d use ’em for maintenance jobs. Look under inventory.”

“It’s not exactly an encyclopaedia,” Junsu grumbles in reply. “Looks like the Cerberus is still around, though. No surprise there.”

Yunho wanders away, past the mechanic’s post with the assorted tools and electronics, past the fuel lines. “Merchandise has to be transported into town somehow. They don’t just heft it onto their backs and carry it. Keep looking.”

There’s a docking line full of commercial transports that look like they’ve passed through the crucible, followed by oil marks left as imprints of a recent fix. Or maybe they’ve always been there. Maybe cleanliness is the last thing on these people’s minds. Yunho tries hard to not be smug about the facilities on the Acheron. It’s not his ship to be smug about anymore.

A bit further, he can see the tail end, unmarked, unpolished, of the Cerberus. It looms like the tail of some great sleeping animal, but Yunho feels no fear of it. False security has made these smugglers lax. If they’re rebels - and there seems to be little doubt of that left - they think they own this rock.

The Guard may not pay his salary anymore, but he’s still its man.

The temptation to rig the fuel line and strike a match is almost too great to resist.

Yunho thinks of Jiexi’s scar, of the boy he saw on her ship and hesitates. Air is lacking from his lungs, the dry heat seeping into his pores despite the shade. He can feel it eating away at him like a virus, like a cancer.

A loud noise echoes through the hangar. He turns, but Junsu is nowhere to be seen. On instinct, Yunho reaches for his lasergun, feels his hands protest the tension. If he looks, he knows the sight of red-tinged skin will make him sick. He can deal with pain but not with visuals; they tend to bring back memories and make him utterly useless.

“Junsu,” he hisses. His only answer is silence. “Damn it.”

They’re way behind enemy lines with no hope of ever receiving reinforcements. If that grinding of wheels and an engine being powered to life means they’re about to get company, they’re well and truly screwed. What can he do?

His hand shakes as he peers at their surroundings, heart pounding in his chest.

Again, the same sound echoes, loud and unmissable.

A draught lifts the canopy from a window. It hits the metal with a crash like the sound of a gunshot. Yunho relaxes. It’s just a ventilation turbine playing tricks on his nerves. Mechanics probably use it to keep out the fumes and forgot to unplug it properly.

Idiots.

He’ll do them a favour to stop it for them, but if he doesn’t, there’s a good chance they’ll wake up and come looking and he still doesn’t know where his Lt. is.

The device is simple, there’s literally just one button to press. He does so with a sigh that berates his own anxiety. Rearranging the canopy over the opening in the wall, he hesitates. The metal grates slice up his vision of the land outside, the outskirts of the jungle reaching in like hands to grab at this man-made construction.

His heart skips a beat.

There, on the edge of the forest, he sees Changmin.

“Yunho!” Junsu’s voice shoots through him like an arrow and he turns away, shaken but no so much as to miss the cheerful note. “Found a landspeeder.”

When he looks again, Changmin is gone.