(no subject)
Title: Dune (2/8)
Authors: butterflyweb and nemesis_cry
Genre: Sci Fi, AU to our "Acts" AU
Rating: R to NC-17
Pairing: Yunho/Yoochun
Summary: Enemies as members of opposing factions, they have to fight to survive as they are landed in unusual circumstances
Warnings: swearing, violence and sexual themes.
AN: Inspired by the premise of Barry B. Longyear's Enemy Mine.
AN2: Not a formal part of our multi-chaptered Acts of Contrition and Acts of Insurrection storyline but using elements of both.
Chapter 1
His skin is lobster red and raw, blistering under the unrelenting sun. Living on Elysia, the thick, barely breathable humidity a familiar poison, heat is the last thing he'd expected to bother him. But this is inhuman. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth, stomach growling from his forced fast. Rations are slim and stolen, bound to run out sooner rather than later. The metal of the fallen crafts is scorching against his palms as he digs through their cockpits, looking for sensors, anything to detect other lifeforms or more importantly, water, in their immediate radius. His patience is thin and temper short and it's a fucking wonder that he hasn't yet put a shot through the other man's forehead.
"Give me the med kit you thieving, cowardly son of a bitch," comes the older pilot's voice, black and thin with pain.
He thinks he should check for knives inside it, but only after he's thrown it in the Guard's general direction. Just what he needs: an invalid to slow him down and now a potentially armed invalid at that. Eyes roll with the naive conviction that he's safe while he's armed, but keeping his distance to conserve the advantage is difficult when all he wants to do is punish someone for what he has to endure.
After all, they wouldn't be here if that Guard son of a bitch would've just let himself be shot.
The sound of labored breathing is loud behind him but he tries to ignore it. He's in pain? Good. He deserves it. Yoochun inhales sharply, digging an instrument out of the Imperial fighter's cockpit, hope rising in him when he thinks it might be what he's looking for. It flickers to life, numbers and patterns in a code he doesn't understand. Fucking hell. Climbing down, he waves it at the injured man, other hand going to his weapon. Just in case.
"What is this?"
There's no reply as the other man rummages through the medkit, emerging victorious as he draws a syringe. Yoochun doesn't know, but assume it's morphine. It would figure Guard soldiers, for all their fancy uniforms and regulations, are not that good with pain. They just inflict it on others.
A vicious kick sends the box and its contents flying, scattering over the ground and his enemy's front. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"
"I can hear that, you fuck." Trembling hands undo the plastic around the needle, shaking so pathetically Yoochun has to wonder if the other man isn't a junkie waiting for his next hit. He wouldn't be the first to rely on morphine to clear out his conscience, not that it makes him any less disgusting.
He snatches it from his hand, holding up the instrument and ignoring the look of pure hatred the action earns him. "Then pay attention and you'll get your fix, got it? What.is.this?"
The man's hands clench into fists. "It's a geographical layout scanner. Give me the fucking repairer." He's ashen, Yoochun notes, jaw clenching.
"How do you read it?"
"Left to right and top to bottom, moron," the other man snaps, reaching out. "I need it. Give it to me." His eyes should be bloodshot, if he were a true addict. Instead, he just looks like he's trying very hard not to cry. For a moment, Yoochun has memories of bullies in a schoolyard. Except this time around, he's the one with the power.
"We need water more than you need your medicine," he decides, firmly thrusting the panel into his grasp. "Read it."
Instead of waiting for the inevitable bargaining he knows will ensue, Yoochun crouches by the other's injured leg. It's a guess, but he figures the drug will work quicker if it's administered close to the actual wound. And it's not like the other pilot can move around a lot, looking like he is about to drop dead any minute now. He rips what's left of the pant leg and finds the ugly gash without having to fumble along too much. He waits, the needle poised.
The other man inhales sharply, hand shaking as he holds the scanner, pressing a series of buttons. "One kilometer due West. It shows water, presumably fresh." The scanner is thrown at him. "Happy now, you prick? Give it to me."
"Ecstatic," he glares, half tempted to throw the syringe well out of the other man's reach. He's not so petty as that, and he sticks it in instead, the needle going in well under the skin. As liquid flows into his body, he's surprised to find the other barely flinching. "You'd better hope that thing works fast," he sighs, "because come sundown, we're walking."
***
It wasn't an idle threat.
The muzzle of his own gun is pressed firmly into the small of his back, his breath harsh in his own ears. The repairer has gone a long way to ease what would've been an impossible trek, but he's not fully to a hundred percent and he's painfully reminded of it with every step and every protest from his abused lungs. The unbearable heat of midday has given way to bitter cold, his breath steaming the night air in front of him. Stationed aboard the climate controlled conditions of the Acheron for all these years, his body isn't equipped to deal with the rapid shift in conditions.
The rebel scum at his side seems taxed but better off and Yunho could strangle him for it. Because it's less risky and requires less effort, he damns the Fates instead.
One kilometer is easily managed--on Attica, where the sun is never too hot and the forests never quite wild enough. Here, between the sand grains blown by the wind into his face and the sand dunes changing shape under his feet, it's a truly Herculean task.
Part of him wonders at the terraforming process on this rock. Did the government run out of funds or did they just stop because the war started? Or did they think there was no need for another settlement, especially one so far from the central planets? Yunho's own opinions tend towards blaming the rebels, but for all their meddling influence, they're hardly a big enough threat to terraforming. It must be that they abandoned this rock because they thought it was useless. It certainly looks like it.
It also looks like besides oxygen and solid earth under their feet, there's not much else by the way of habitable conditions. No animals and if what he sees on the horizon is a mirage or a hallucination, then no plants either.
"Eureka," the rebel bastard chuckles. "Would you look at that? Turns out your stupid device was right."
If what he sees on the horizon is a hallucination, then he must be sharing it with the other man.
Yunho concludes it's real.
***
They collapse to the ground by the edge of a small pond, exhaustion creeping in and tightening its web around them. The evening chill is much helpful in that as well. Yoochun damns it but fills his mouth with pure, clean water without scanning it for contamination or foreign bodies.
To his surprise, the soldier isn't any more careful, falling to his knees with an audible grunt and filling his hands with the clear liquid. He contemplates shoving him away, it would be a bully's way, but then he's brought him here and he's too tired anyway. He gives him a once over out of the corner of his eye, taking in the leg that he's barely favoring. He's smart enough to know he was at an advantage over the other man when he was injured, one he's quickly being robbed of. He'll have to be doubly watchful.
Another gulp of the icy water and he's taken in their surroundings, thoughts crowding his mind. It isn't a paradise, not by any means, but it's enough of a break from the surrounding sand and sun that he concludes he'll make camp here. There's a pang in his stomach at the thought of abandoning his craft, but he comforts himself with the knowledge that it isn't going anywhere without him, should he choose to return to it.
A more serious concern comes to mind. What's he supposed to do with the soldier now? The other man is going to want his gun back, in typical proprietary fashion and Yoochun doesn't think he wants to revisit that standoff. Luck was on his side once, he can't keep assuming it'll save his skin.
With water dripping from his lips, the other pilot draws back and away from the water, leaving Yoochun to follow like an uneasy guard.
"We make camp here," he states, hugging his sides for the cold. A winter's chill blows through the dunes, turning their sweat to shards of ice.
Yoochun narrows his eyes. "Who died and left you in charge?"
A glare. "Between the two of us, I'm the only one possessing survival training. Not to mention without me, you wouldn't have even found this place. "
He snorts, teeth chattering slightly. "Finders keepers? Remarkable logic there."
He's ignored, the other man's hands reaching for the backpack slung over his shoulder even as Yoochun recoils, grabbing his gun and aiming it in the process. The Guard is not deterred. "Being an argumentative ass isn't going to warm you. At this rate, we'll both get hypothermia and die. We need a fire."
Yoochun doesn't lower his weapon. It does wonderful things for his mood and security. He won't shoot an invalid, but he has no qualms about leaving the pilot with a nasty gut wound if he tries something. "By all means, make one then."
"With my bare hands?" comes the pointed question, one hand reaching out. "Throw me the damn kit, you coward. And stop waving that thing around. What am I going to attack you with? My vicious rhetoric?"
He does as told, sending it flying with more force than perhaps is needed. "Keep calling me a coward and we're going to have a problem."
The solider lets out a grunt as the object hits him, an icy glare sent in return. "Now who's the child?"
Opening the kit, he nods to their immediate area. "Find me something dry that will hold a flame."
"I don't take orders from the Guard," Yoochun snaps in return, but finds himself obeying anyway. It's the cold, he tells himself. He needs to get warm.
Trees and shrubs surround them but he knows from Elysia that to break green wood is a struggle he has no time for. It's pointless, too, since it would take forever to light it. Sharp, thorny little twigs are all he finds. They'll have to do. He gathers them quickly, hands shaking from the cold, and dumps them in front of the other man, sitting back on his haunches.
"Hurry up."
"I'm trying," he thinks he hears through gritted teeth, the other's hands shaking as he light a flare. Pink light illuminates the clearing and their faces. It reminds Yoochun of barn dances trying to look posh and disco but always falling short. Red fire drowns the memory in a hazy cloud of smoke.
He thinks he sees the Guard smirk, but he can't be sure.
***
The fire is meager, but he tends to it faithfully, coaxing it to grow. The rebel son of a bitch just sits there, hands held out to warm himself. It frustrates and puzzles Yunho. Most of them are little better than criminals and beggars; are they useless as well? He doesn't know whether to attribute then inaction to incapability or insubordinace and finds each angers him.
"See if there's thermo-blankets inside," he mutters, nodding towards the backpack. Dark, distrustful eyes rise to meet his own. "The fire is good for a spell, but we need more heat." He thinks of his feet and the fact that he already can't feel his toes. It's cause for worry, but he won't admit defeat. Whatever he may be, he isn't weak.
His companion in this predicament rummages inside, sitting too close to the fire for comfort and Yunho has a brief flash of cloth catching flame. Their flightsuits are supposed to resist high temperatures, but who knows what cheap knock-offs are used by the enemy? He can always hope.
"There's only one," the man sighs, pulling it out carefully. His smirk grates on Yunho's nerves. "Guess you're freezing to death, then."
His anger flares, fists clenching at his sides. "A barbarian to the last."
Yunho's eyes dart to the gun at the other's hip. He needs his weapon. A single shot and he will be rid of the other man. There's no cause to share amongst an enemy, not when each measure is only a brief delay against death.
"Fine. Sleep." A smirk to mirror the rebel's. "I'll take first watch." And take the guns too, once the other man is fast asleep. Minimum of effort for a maximum of success.
His thoughts must be more transparent that he thinks because the rebel hesitates, grabbing shigawire rope from the backpack. "Put out your hands."
Yunho snarls. "I am not your prisoner."
The gun is in his face again in seconds, pressed against his temple. "As long as I have this and you don't, you bet your ass you are. Put out your fucking hands."
He's not going to shot like an animal. Ego taking a hit, he does as told, jerking his head away from the muzzle pressed into his skin. Son of a bitch is going to regret ever doing this to him. Yunho will make him regret it.
Soft metal wraps around his wrists, snapping shut and twisting tighter with every attempt to move his arms. There's a reason it's not used in open court cases anymore. The pain that travels up his spine with each press of the thorny, metal teeth is beyond inhumane.
He'll fucking make the other man regret it.
***
There is a faint stinging on his skin, growing stronger as he drifts back from his dreams, the backs of his eyelids painted a vivid scarlet. Swiping at his cheek, he opens his eyes to slits, aware of an unfamiliar weight on his chest. He sits up quickly, the layer of sand that had been covering him falling away. Confused, Yoochun looks at his surroundings, notes the thick blanket of sand on any and all things around them, not to mention the considerable amount blowing through the air, stinging his eyes.
He coughs it out, finding some on his tongue, in his nostrils, like little microbes trying to weave a path into his body by any and all means available. He shuffles to his feet, the strong winds making it only too easy to waver in place. For a moment, he's alone. The Guard must've left, run away with shigawire biting into his skin--because Guard aren't human anyway, they're treacherous scum so maybe they don't feel pain like they should--but if so, he's left behind his flightsuit, the sleeves of which Yoochun sees blowing in the harsh current. It's only upon coming closer that he sees the body attached to the bottom half, that he hears the sounds of a man choking.
"Fuck," he hisses, dropping to his knees to drag the other man out of his gradual entombment, fingers clenching around his bicep to pull him up, pounding on his back as he hacks up sand, covered in the fine grains. The other's wrists are raw from trying to struggle from his bonds and Yoochun feels a brief surge of shame. No one deserves that kind of death. He is not a savage enough to have caused it.
"Take them..." He doesn't wait for the pilot to finish the sentence, already trying to work off the bonds. It's strange and he knows he completely lacks a protective instinct--least of all when it involves the Guard--but he finds himself trying to shield the other man from the strong winds with his back, averting his eyes at the well-deserved glare thrown his way. It's accompanied by a cough and frantic movements.
"Grab... grab the thermo-blanket, we need to make a... a shelter."
This time, he doesn't hesitate at the order, scrambling away to grab the thin sheet of material, winds whipping at his exposed skin, leaving his face red and stinging. It takes more effort than it should to get back to where the solider is, every step feeling as if he'll be knocked off his feet. He makes it there in the end, falling half on top of the other man, half to the side. Every movement is laced with difficulty and effort, full of grunts and aches as he strives to drag the thermo-blanket over their bodies and heads.
Arms littered with tiny scars reach out to help him.
A thank you makes it to the tip of his tongue before he swallows it back, focusing his energy on surviving this storm. The other man is just saving his own skin. It's got nothing to do with Yoochun.
"What happens if it covers us?" he shouts, the thought sudden and fear inducing.
"We'll dig," the soldier yells back, voice hoarse in the small space shielding them from the winds. "We can't fight it. We have to wait until it passes."
The thought of their helplessness threatens to paralyze him. What defense is there against an enemy you can't fight? Panic is sick in him, huddled and fingers clenched around the edges of the blanket. He doesn't want to die like this, with this man.
Sharp words echo in their small, make-shift tent: "Get a hold of yourself, you fuck!" The other man's voice shakes only slightly. "If you're going to have a panic attack, you're not using up my oxygen."
For a moment, anger overwhelms fear. But it is a brief respite, fear of suffocation still rank in him and he already feels like he can't breathe. It does nothing to assuage his terror. "We're going to die," he chokes, fighting the urge to scramble out of the improvisational shelter. "It's going to bury us alive."
Fingers tangle in his hair and twist his head, forcing him to meet cold eyes. "Yeah, we're going to die, but not like this. Don't you want the pleasure of putting a bullet in me yourself?" There's blood on the lips spewing this poison and Yoochun sees it through a cloud of doubt. "Just think of squeezing that trigger, come on!" Shock tactics don't work on him, he wants to say but finds only harsh breaths to translate what he's feeling. "Come on, don't you dare lose it! Don't you dare leave me here with a fucking dead body!"
Distantly, he realizes, the other man is probably just as scared.
***
Fear is red-tinged and sharp in him, but fuck all if he'll lose it as easily as this coward. Every gulping breath the other man takes only lessens their chances of surviving this and he will not fucking let that happen. He has to make him stop. If he had a gun, he tells himself, he'd shoot him. It tastes a lie even as he thinks it; the prospect of being left to suffocate with only a corpse for company is a hundred times more terrifying.
But if the other cannot get a grip, he'll be forced to take measures.
"Listen to me," he chokes, trying to lessen his hold on the other's scalp. He's too far gone to answer to pain stimuli. "You have to calm down. Just breathe." It's just his luck to get caught in a sandstorm with a guy who's claustrophobic, but Yunho doesn't dwell on the downside for long. They're alive and he's going to keep them alive so he can beat the shit out of the stupid rebel for getting them into this mess to begin with.
Dry sobs wrench out of the other man's throat, pathetic and slightly depressing. Yunho cups his cheeks in hands that are much too calloused, much too coarse to be gentle. "Calm.the fuck.down."
Something about the touch makes it through the cloud of fear that surrounds the other man, wet eyes meeting his. He's got his attention, at least. He plans to hold it. If he's lucky, the man will faint. An unconscious body requires less oxygen and that's something they both would benefit from.
"I don't want to die," comes the harsh whisper and Yunho is torn between disgust and his own, self-same fear.
"You won't die. We're not going to fucking die, you understand? You survived a fucking fighter crash, the weather is nothing, got it?"
There's no answer and he wipes away at the tears that spill over round cheeks, assuming the other man is too lost in his depression to care for propriety. Yunho doesn't know what to do so he does what he shouldn't. Bleeding arms wrap around strong shoulders, dragging the other man further down and away from the shaking canopy. He presses his face into what's left of his shirt, forcing him to inhale deeply rather than keep on with that stuttering, dangerous rhythm.
"You're not going to die. Just calm down."
Hands press flat against his chest, trying to push away before clenching in the torn fabric, a long, ragged breath taken in against Yunho's skin. He keeps his hold on the rebel tight, remembering his mother telling him that children want to be swaddled, to be wrapped tight in warmth until they can't move. That it is comfort to them. The man in his arms is as much a sobbing child as he can be at the moment, and so, gritting his teeth, Yunho keeps him close.
Taking advantage of their closeness, he runs a hand down his back, soothing as much as searching. What he finds are the remaining chargers and the butts of two guns. He leaves only empty shells behind. It's a measure of protection, as much as his embrace is. He has no illusions of this uneasy truce lasting any longer than the sandstorm.
***
The winds die down after what feels like an eternity. He's surrounded by strange warmth, trapped between thin panel and hard muscles. He wishes it wouldn't be so comfortable before shaking the other man.
"Wake up. It's over."
He draws away as the other stirs, not having far to go. Hesitantly, his hands press against the roof of their makeshift shelter, feeling the weight pressing back. As well as the give. Not so deep then, that they can't dig their way out. It brings both relief and shame, his own weakness in front of his enemy a hard thing to put out of his mind.
The other man pays him no mind, sitting up and testing the strength of his good leg. "How deep?" is his only question and though it's on Yoochun's tongue to snap that he doesn't know, he also assumes the other man is asking for an estimation, nothing more.
"A foot, at most," he shrugs. "Could be worse."
"A lot worse," the other mutters, his own hands pressing against the material. "The scanner gave no indication. It must've been sudden. And that means it's likely to happen again."
Yoochun blanches. "With no means of predicting...?"
The Guard shakes his head. "We have to get back to the crafts. It's safest." He gestures for Yoochun to stand, even crouching. "Come on, we'll push with our backs."
A nod, following the other's lead and trying not to think how ridiculously easy it is to fall into that habit. "On three," he mutters, trying not to think that he could be wrong, that sand could rush in to suffocate them at any moment.
There's no time to fear, however, as the Guard counts down, sharply leaning back and leaving Yoochun to follow. For a second, he imagines that it's like being born, darkness giving way to sharp light, illuminating their faces under the harsh midday glare. Sand pours in around their feet, feeling the hollow of air now lost and somewhere in the struggle to break free, his hand finds the Guard's. It's accidental, but he takes the offered help when it's thrown his way, hoisting himself out of the cooling earth.
Somewhere at the bottom of that pit is the shigawire and the weapons chargers and though he may regret one, he doesn't yet know about the other. His thoughts are on the scanner.
"What will we do about the water?" he pants, chest heaving with shock and fatigue.
"Hope it rains," comes the man's retort, rubbing at his wounded wrists. "For now, we walk. Better to make it to the crafts before the sun is too high."
Yoochun doesn't disagree, standing on wobbling knees and recovering what instruments he sees poking from the sand. Among them, luckily, is the scanner. He turns to see the soldier methodically folding the thermo-blanket.
"How's your leg?" he finds himself asking, surprising himself with his concern.
An arched eyebrow. "It is manageable." He doesn't elaborate.
Yoochun scowls, tucking the scanner into his pocket. They'll need it again, best to keep it as protected from the elements as he can. "Fantastic, then. Let's go."
Authors: butterflyweb and nemesis_cry
Genre: Sci Fi, AU to our "Acts" AU
Rating: R to NC-17
Pairing: Yunho/Yoochun
Summary: Enemies as members of opposing factions, they have to fight to survive as they are landed in unusual circumstances
Warnings: swearing, violence and sexual themes.
AN: Inspired by the premise of Barry B. Longyear's Enemy Mine.
AN2: Not a formal part of our multi-chaptered Acts of Contrition and Acts of Insurrection storyline but using elements of both.
Chapter 1
His skin is lobster red and raw, blistering under the unrelenting sun. Living on Elysia, the thick, barely breathable humidity a familiar poison, heat is the last thing he'd expected to bother him. But this is inhuman. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth, stomach growling from his forced fast. Rations are slim and stolen, bound to run out sooner rather than later. The metal of the fallen crafts is scorching against his palms as he digs through their cockpits, looking for sensors, anything to detect other lifeforms or more importantly, water, in their immediate radius. His patience is thin and temper short and it's a fucking wonder that he hasn't yet put a shot through the other man's forehead.
"Give me the med kit you thieving, cowardly son of a bitch," comes the older pilot's voice, black and thin with pain.
He thinks he should check for knives inside it, but only after he's thrown it in the Guard's general direction. Just what he needs: an invalid to slow him down and now a potentially armed invalid at that. Eyes roll with the naive conviction that he's safe while he's armed, but keeping his distance to conserve the advantage is difficult when all he wants to do is punish someone for what he has to endure.
After all, they wouldn't be here if that Guard son of a bitch would've just let himself be shot.
The sound of labored breathing is loud behind him but he tries to ignore it. He's in pain? Good. He deserves it. Yoochun inhales sharply, digging an instrument out of the Imperial fighter's cockpit, hope rising in him when he thinks it might be what he's looking for. It flickers to life, numbers and patterns in a code he doesn't understand. Fucking hell. Climbing down, he waves it at the injured man, other hand going to his weapon. Just in case.
"What is this?"
There's no reply as the other man rummages through the medkit, emerging victorious as he draws a syringe. Yoochun doesn't know, but assume it's morphine. It would figure Guard soldiers, for all their fancy uniforms and regulations, are not that good with pain. They just inflict it on others.
A vicious kick sends the box and its contents flying, scattering over the ground and his enemy's front. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"
"I can hear that, you fuck." Trembling hands undo the plastic around the needle, shaking so pathetically Yoochun has to wonder if the other man isn't a junkie waiting for his next hit. He wouldn't be the first to rely on morphine to clear out his conscience, not that it makes him any less disgusting.
He snatches it from his hand, holding up the instrument and ignoring the look of pure hatred the action earns him. "Then pay attention and you'll get your fix, got it? What.is.this?"
The man's hands clench into fists. "It's a geographical layout scanner. Give me the fucking repairer." He's ashen, Yoochun notes, jaw clenching.
"How do you read it?"
"Left to right and top to bottom, moron," the other man snaps, reaching out. "I need it. Give it to me." His eyes should be bloodshot, if he were a true addict. Instead, he just looks like he's trying very hard not to cry. For a moment, Yoochun has memories of bullies in a schoolyard. Except this time around, he's the one with the power.
"We need water more than you need your medicine," he decides, firmly thrusting the panel into his grasp. "Read it."
Instead of waiting for the inevitable bargaining he knows will ensue, Yoochun crouches by the other's injured leg. It's a guess, but he figures the drug will work quicker if it's administered close to the actual wound. And it's not like the other pilot can move around a lot, looking like he is about to drop dead any minute now. He rips what's left of the pant leg and finds the ugly gash without having to fumble along too much. He waits, the needle poised.
The other man inhales sharply, hand shaking as he holds the scanner, pressing a series of buttons. "One kilometer due West. It shows water, presumably fresh." The scanner is thrown at him. "Happy now, you prick? Give it to me."
"Ecstatic," he glares, half tempted to throw the syringe well out of the other man's reach. He's not so petty as that, and he sticks it in instead, the needle going in well under the skin. As liquid flows into his body, he's surprised to find the other barely flinching. "You'd better hope that thing works fast," he sighs, "because come sundown, we're walking."
***
It wasn't an idle threat.
The muzzle of his own gun is pressed firmly into the small of his back, his breath harsh in his own ears. The repairer has gone a long way to ease what would've been an impossible trek, but he's not fully to a hundred percent and he's painfully reminded of it with every step and every protest from his abused lungs. The unbearable heat of midday has given way to bitter cold, his breath steaming the night air in front of him. Stationed aboard the climate controlled conditions of the Acheron for all these years, his body isn't equipped to deal with the rapid shift in conditions.
The rebel scum at his side seems taxed but better off and Yunho could strangle him for it. Because it's less risky and requires less effort, he damns the Fates instead.
One kilometer is easily managed--on Attica, where the sun is never too hot and the forests never quite wild enough. Here, between the sand grains blown by the wind into his face and the sand dunes changing shape under his feet, it's a truly Herculean task.
Part of him wonders at the terraforming process on this rock. Did the government run out of funds or did they just stop because the war started? Or did they think there was no need for another settlement, especially one so far from the central planets? Yunho's own opinions tend towards blaming the rebels, but for all their meddling influence, they're hardly a big enough threat to terraforming. It must be that they abandoned this rock because they thought it was useless. It certainly looks like it.
It also looks like besides oxygen and solid earth under their feet, there's not much else by the way of habitable conditions. No animals and if what he sees on the horizon is a mirage or a hallucination, then no plants either.
"Eureka," the rebel bastard chuckles. "Would you look at that? Turns out your stupid device was right."
If what he sees on the horizon is a hallucination, then he must be sharing it with the other man.
Yunho concludes it's real.
***
They collapse to the ground by the edge of a small pond, exhaustion creeping in and tightening its web around them. The evening chill is much helpful in that as well. Yoochun damns it but fills his mouth with pure, clean water without scanning it for contamination or foreign bodies.
To his surprise, the soldier isn't any more careful, falling to his knees with an audible grunt and filling his hands with the clear liquid. He contemplates shoving him away, it would be a bully's way, but then he's brought him here and he's too tired anyway. He gives him a once over out of the corner of his eye, taking in the leg that he's barely favoring. He's smart enough to know he was at an advantage over the other man when he was injured, one he's quickly being robbed of. He'll have to be doubly watchful.
Another gulp of the icy water and he's taken in their surroundings, thoughts crowding his mind. It isn't a paradise, not by any means, but it's enough of a break from the surrounding sand and sun that he concludes he'll make camp here. There's a pang in his stomach at the thought of abandoning his craft, but he comforts himself with the knowledge that it isn't going anywhere without him, should he choose to return to it.
A more serious concern comes to mind. What's he supposed to do with the soldier now? The other man is going to want his gun back, in typical proprietary fashion and Yoochun doesn't think he wants to revisit that standoff. Luck was on his side once, he can't keep assuming it'll save his skin.
With water dripping from his lips, the other pilot draws back and away from the water, leaving Yoochun to follow like an uneasy guard.
"We make camp here," he states, hugging his sides for the cold. A winter's chill blows through the dunes, turning their sweat to shards of ice.
Yoochun narrows his eyes. "Who died and left you in charge?"
A glare. "Between the two of us, I'm the only one possessing survival training. Not to mention without me, you wouldn't have even found this place. "
He snorts, teeth chattering slightly. "Finders keepers? Remarkable logic there."
He's ignored, the other man's hands reaching for the backpack slung over his shoulder even as Yoochun recoils, grabbing his gun and aiming it in the process. The Guard is not deterred. "Being an argumentative ass isn't going to warm you. At this rate, we'll both get hypothermia and die. We need a fire."
Yoochun doesn't lower his weapon. It does wonderful things for his mood and security. He won't shoot an invalid, but he has no qualms about leaving the pilot with a nasty gut wound if he tries something. "By all means, make one then."
"With my bare hands?" comes the pointed question, one hand reaching out. "Throw me the damn kit, you coward. And stop waving that thing around. What am I going to attack you with? My vicious rhetoric?"
He does as told, sending it flying with more force than perhaps is needed. "Keep calling me a coward and we're going to have a problem."
The solider lets out a grunt as the object hits him, an icy glare sent in return. "Now who's the child?"
Opening the kit, he nods to their immediate area. "Find me something dry that will hold a flame."
"I don't take orders from the Guard," Yoochun snaps in return, but finds himself obeying anyway. It's the cold, he tells himself. He needs to get warm.
Trees and shrubs surround them but he knows from Elysia that to break green wood is a struggle he has no time for. It's pointless, too, since it would take forever to light it. Sharp, thorny little twigs are all he finds. They'll have to do. He gathers them quickly, hands shaking from the cold, and dumps them in front of the other man, sitting back on his haunches.
"Hurry up."
"I'm trying," he thinks he hears through gritted teeth, the other's hands shaking as he light a flare. Pink light illuminates the clearing and their faces. It reminds Yoochun of barn dances trying to look posh and disco but always falling short. Red fire drowns the memory in a hazy cloud of smoke.
He thinks he sees the Guard smirk, but he can't be sure.
***
The fire is meager, but he tends to it faithfully, coaxing it to grow. The rebel son of a bitch just sits there, hands held out to warm himself. It frustrates and puzzles Yunho. Most of them are little better than criminals and beggars; are they useless as well? He doesn't know whether to attribute then inaction to incapability or insubordinace and finds each angers him.
"See if there's thermo-blankets inside," he mutters, nodding towards the backpack. Dark, distrustful eyes rise to meet his own. "The fire is good for a spell, but we need more heat." He thinks of his feet and the fact that he already can't feel his toes. It's cause for worry, but he won't admit defeat. Whatever he may be, he isn't weak.
His companion in this predicament rummages inside, sitting too close to the fire for comfort and Yunho has a brief flash of cloth catching flame. Their flightsuits are supposed to resist high temperatures, but who knows what cheap knock-offs are used by the enemy? He can always hope.
"There's only one," the man sighs, pulling it out carefully. His smirk grates on Yunho's nerves. "Guess you're freezing to death, then."
His anger flares, fists clenching at his sides. "A barbarian to the last."
Yunho's eyes dart to the gun at the other's hip. He needs his weapon. A single shot and he will be rid of the other man. There's no cause to share amongst an enemy, not when each measure is only a brief delay against death.
"Fine. Sleep." A smirk to mirror the rebel's. "I'll take first watch." And take the guns too, once the other man is fast asleep. Minimum of effort for a maximum of success.
His thoughts must be more transparent that he thinks because the rebel hesitates, grabbing shigawire rope from the backpack. "Put out your hands."
Yunho snarls. "I am not your prisoner."
The gun is in his face again in seconds, pressed against his temple. "As long as I have this and you don't, you bet your ass you are. Put out your fucking hands."
He's not going to shot like an animal. Ego taking a hit, he does as told, jerking his head away from the muzzle pressed into his skin. Son of a bitch is going to regret ever doing this to him. Yunho will make him regret it.
Soft metal wraps around his wrists, snapping shut and twisting tighter with every attempt to move his arms. There's a reason it's not used in open court cases anymore. The pain that travels up his spine with each press of the thorny, metal teeth is beyond inhumane.
He'll fucking make the other man regret it.
***
There is a faint stinging on his skin, growing stronger as he drifts back from his dreams, the backs of his eyelids painted a vivid scarlet. Swiping at his cheek, he opens his eyes to slits, aware of an unfamiliar weight on his chest. He sits up quickly, the layer of sand that had been covering him falling away. Confused, Yoochun looks at his surroundings, notes the thick blanket of sand on any and all things around them, not to mention the considerable amount blowing through the air, stinging his eyes.
He coughs it out, finding some on his tongue, in his nostrils, like little microbes trying to weave a path into his body by any and all means available. He shuffles to his feet, the strong winds making it only too easy to waver in place. For a moment, he's alone. The Guard must've left, run away with shigawire biting into his skin--because Guard aren't human anyway, they're treacherous scum so maybe they don't feel pain like they should--but if so, he's left behind his flightsuit, the sleeves of which Yoochun sees blowing in the harsh current. It's only upon coming closer that he sees the body attached to the bottom half, that he hears the sounds of a man choking.
"Fuck," he hisses, dropping to his knees to drag the other man out of his gradual entombment, fingers clenching around his bicep to pull him up, pounding on his back as he hacks up sand, covered in the fine grains. The other's wrists are raw from trying to struggle from his bonds and Yoochun feels a brief surge of shame. No one deserves that kind of death. He is not a savage enough to have caused it.
"Take them..." He doesn't wait for the pilot to finish the sentence, already trying to work off the bonds. It's strange and he knows he completely lacks a protective instinct--least of all when it involves the Guard--but he finds himself trying to shield the other man from the strong winds with his back, averting his eyes at the well-deserved glare thrown his way. It's accompanied by a cough and frantic movements.
"Grab... grab the thermo-blanket, we need to make a... a shelter."
This time, he doesn't hesitate at the order, scrambling away to grab the thin sheet of material, winds whipping at his exposed skin, leaving his face red and stinging. It takes more effort than it should to get back to where the solider is, every step feeling as if he'll be knocked off his feet. He makes it there in the end, falling half on top of the other man, half to the side. Every movement is laced with difficulty and effort, full of grunts and aches as he strives to drag the thermo-blanket over their bodies and heads.
Arms littered with tiny scars reach out to help him.
A thank you makes it to the tip of his tongue before he swallows it back, focusing his energy on surviving this storm. The other man is just saving his own skin. It's got nothing to do with Yoochun.
"What happens if it covers us?" he shouts, the thought sudden and fear inducing.
"We'll dig," the soldier yells back, voice hoarse in the small space shielding them from the winds. "We can't fight it. We have to wait until it passes."
The thought of their helplessness threatens to paralyze him. What defense is there against an enemy you can't fight? Panic is sick in him, huddled and fingers clenched around the edges of the blanket. He doesn't want to die like this, with this man.
Sharp words echo in their small, make-shift tent: "Get a hold of yourself, you fuck!" The other man's voice shakes only slightly. "If you're going to have a panic attack, you're not using up my oxygen."
For a moment, anger overwhelms fear. But it is a brief respite, fear of suffocation still rank in him and he already feels like he can't breathe. It does nothing to assuage his terror. "We're going to die," he chokes, fighting the urge to scramble out of the improvisational shelter. "It's going to bury us alive."
Fingers tangle in his hair and twist his head, forcing him to meet cold eyes. "Yeah, we're going to die, but not like this. Don't you want the pleasure of putting a bullet in me yourself?" There's blood on the lips spewing this poison and Yoochun sees it through a cloud of doubt. "Just think of squeezing that trigger, come on!" Shock tactics don't work on him, he wants to say but finds only harsh breaths to translate what he's feeling. "Come on, don't you dare lose it! Don't you dare leave me here with a fucking dead body!"
Distantly, he realizes, the other man is probably just as scared.
***
Fear is red-tinged and sharp in him, but fuck all if he'll lose it as easily as this coward. Every gulping breath the other man takes only lessens their chances of surviving this and he will not fucking let that happen. He has to make him stop. If he had a gun, he tells himself, he'd shoot him. It tastes a lie even as he thinks it; the prospect of being left to suffocate with only a corpse for company is a hundred times more terrifying.
But if the other cannot get a grip, he'll be forced to take measures.
"Listen to me," he chokes, trying to lessen his hold on the other's scalp. He's too far gone to answer to pain stimuli. "You have to calm down. Just breathe." It's just his luck to get caught in a sandstorm with a guy who's claustrophobic, but Yunho doesn't dwell on the downside for long. They're alive and he's going to keep them alive so he can beat the shit out of the stupid rebel for getting them into this mess to begin with.
Dry sobs wrench out of the other man's throat, pathetic and slightly depressing. Yunho cups his cheeks in hands that are much too calloused, much too coarse to be gentle. "Calm.the fuck.down."
Something about the touch makes it through the cloud of fear that surrounds the other man, wet eyes meeting his. He's got his attention, at least. He plans to hold it. If he's lucky, the man will faint. An unconscious body requires less oxygen and that's something they both would benefit from.
"I don't want to die," comes the harsh whisper and Yunho is torn between disgust and his own, self-same fear.
"You won't die. We're not going to fucking die, you understand? You survived a fucking fighter crash, the weather is nothing, got it?"
There's no answer and he wipes away at the tears that spill over round cheeks, assuming the other man is too lost in his depression to care for propriety. Yunho doesn't know what to do so he does what he shouldn't. Bleeding arms wrap around strong shoulders, dragging the other man further down and away from the shaking canopy. He presses his face into what's left of his shirt, forcing him to inhale deeply rather than keep on with that stuttering, dangerous rhythm.
"You're not going to die. Just calm down."
Hands press flat against his chest, trying to push away before clenching in the torn fabric, a long, ragged breath taken in against Yunho's skin. He keeps his hold on the rebel tight, remembering his mother telling him that children want to be swaddled, to be wrapped tight in warmth until they can't move. That it is comfort to them. The man in his arms is as much a sobbing child as he can be at the moment, and so, gritting his teeth, Yunho keeps him close.
Taking advantage of their closeness, he runs a hand down his back, soothing as much as searching. What he finds are the remaining chargers and the butts of two guns. He leaves only empty shells behind. It's a measure of protection, as much as his embrace is. He has no illusions of this uneasy truce lasting any longer than the sandstorm.
***
The winds die down after what feels like an eternity. He's surrounded by strange warmth, trapped between thin panel and hard muscles. He wishes it wouldn't be so comfortable before shaking the other man.
"Wake up. It's over."
He draws away as the other stirs, not having far to go. Hesitantly, his hands press against the roof of their makeshift shelter, feeling the weight pressing back. As well as the give. Not so deep then, that they can't dig their way out. It brings both relief and shame, his own weakness in front of his enemy a hard thing to put out of his mind.
The other man pays him no mind, sitting up and testing the strength of his good leg. "How deep?" is his only question and though it's on Yoochun's tongue to snap that he doesn't know, he also assumes the other man is asking for an estimation, nothing more.
"A foot, at most," he shrugs. "Could be worse."
"A lot worse," the other mutters, his own hands pressing against the material. "The scanner gave no indication. It must've been sudden. And that means it's likely to happen again."
Yoochun blanches. "With no means of predicting...?"
The Guard shakes his head. "We have to get back to the crafts. It's safest." He gestures for Yoochun to stand, even crouching. "Come on, we'll push with our backs."
A nod, following the other's lead and trying not to think how ridiculously easy it is to fall into that habit. "On three," he mutters, trying not to think that he could be wrong, that sand could rush in to suffocate them at any moment.
There's no time to fear, however, as the Guard counts down, sharply leaning back and leaving Yoochun to follow. For a second, he imagines that it's like being born, darkness giving way to sharp light, illuminating their faces under the harsh midday glare. Sand pours in around their feet, feeling the hollow of air now lost and somewhere in the struggle to break free, his hand finds the Guard's. It's accidental, but he takes the offered help when it's thrown his way, hoisting himself out of the cooling earth.
Somewhere at the bottom of that pit is the shigawire and the weapons chargers and though he may regret one, he doesn't yet know about the other. His thoughts are on the scanner.
"What will we do about the water?" he pants, chest heaving with shock and fatigue.
"Hope it rains," comes the man's retort, rubbing at his wounded wrists. "For now, we walk. Better to make it to the crafts before the sun is too high."
Yoochun doesn't disagree, standing on wobbling knees and recovering what instruments he sees poking from the sand. Among them, luckily, is the scanner. He turns to see the soldier methodically folding the thermo-blanket.
"How's your leg?" he finds himself asking, surprising himself with his concern.
An arched eyebrow. "It is manageable." He doesn't elaborate.
Yoochun scowls, tucking the scanner into his pocket. They'll need it again, best to keep it as protected from the elements as he can. "Fantastic, then. Let's go."