Fic- Acts of Contrition (1/20)
Metal and sweat surround him. He’s in the brig. He can’t quite recall why, what happened, but images flitter into his mind. A rebel fighter blown to pieces in their wake; being told they’re mandated to come home; standing up on shaking legs, sweat pouring down his back and ready to yell at Changmin for getting out of range when he realises-there’s no sight of him.
It makes sense, then, why mechanics barely comment on the blown up engine in his craft. Why Command doesn’t ask to meet him immediately so they can tear down his poor planning, his risk-taking attitude.
Junsu watches him carefully, the only one who dares to. A gaze, heavy with meaning, passes between them. Junsu shakes his head. The memory ends.
Other images come to mind: Changmin, gasping for breath, cropped dark hair sticking to his scalp as he pushes him harder into the mattress; Changmin, glaring back from his seat on C Deck after a briefing; Changmin, a rookie, a star pilot in the Imperial Guard.
Gone.
Yunho hits the wall with force he doesn’t think he still posses. His fists ache-did he fight someone already? It doesn’t matter. He keeps drilling his hands into harsh, unforgiving metal, punishing himself. He used to do the same thing when he was twelve and didn’t understand the things his father said to him; the things that made his mother cry.
It didn’t work then, it doesn’t work now. Male nurses bring him to his knees and a needle is pushed into his arm. Silence claims him.
He dreams of insects crawling into his cockpit, his guns useless against mounting fear. He dreams of shapes he doesn’t understand and sees the old banners in flames. In every dream, he’s trying to cry out but finds himself incapable. The great Jung Yunho, recruited from the steps of his school into the Junior Force at fifteen, Lieutenant by 19, the first Captain to lead his squadron to take down a rebel base single-handed - unable to speak.
When he wakes, the sense of impotence stays with him, but he’s no longer alone.
An old man nods at him from the other side of the bars. “Captain.”
For a moment, Yunho is lost. Who is this man, his father? Amnesia would be too kind and a moment later, memories crash onto him with rippling force.
“Commander,” he salutes, standing on formality when he’s lost all rank, all respect, no doubt.
The old man grunts, shifts on his feet. This is as much his failure as it is Yunho’s, he must realise that. If he does or doesn’t, his eyes certainly show no semblance of feeling from beneath thick eyebrows.
“Your behaviour this afternoon has been formally pardoned, but you are placed on temporary leave.”
Yunho doesn’t contest this. What he did is unpardonable, but the Disciplinary Sergeant could’ve said as much. The Commander isn’t here to deliver a sentence. There’s more to his lecture and Yunho isn’t sure he wants to hear it.
They failed. They left a man behind.
No. He failed.
“Lieutenant Shim’s service has been postponed,” the old man announces, as if he knows the particulars of their relationship. A month earlier and Yunho might have credited him with such mysterious knowledge. Things change.
“Until the body is recovered?” he asks before he can stop himself, clinging to that possibility, the chance of seeing Changmin laid to rest in one piece. It’s less horrible to entertain than the thought of his remains scattered on some deserted planet, feeding the soil of the unforgiving homeworld that took his life.
The Commander lets out a long breath but doesn’t invite the private on guard to release Yunho. “At least you’re accepting of his death,” he sighs, avoiding the question. “The Acheron is engaged in a fleet-wide operation. It is vital that I have your cooperation.” And by you, Yunho knows he means of his squadron. The Delta Phi’s are the backbone of any offensive manoeuvre that the old Commander hopes to partake in.
He nods, inviting to hear the rest of it. He knows where this is going, now.
“I have called back our search parties. There’s nothing we can do for Shim’s family. The planet is infested with anti-aircraft scramblers and defence systems. We can’t land and we can’t scan from the atmosphere.”
Changmin is, to all intents and purposes, abandoned.
The Commander keeps speaking. Something about Yunho cooperating and keeping his private thoughts to himself, something about how it’s necessary to make sacrifices in a time of war. It’s all empty words and Yunho blocks him out, sliding to the cold ground.
Time passes slowly. Night falls over his mind, drowning him in darker thoughts than ever before. He berates himself half-heartedly. Out in the black, it’s always night, but when the guard changes, Yunho doesn’t expect to see a familiar face.
“Hey,” he smiles weakly, getting an even weaker smile in response.
Junsu nods towards the mattress-less bunk. “Something wrong with the bed?”
It’s funny, but that’s what it takes for him to realise he’s lying on the floor. No longer kneeling, no longer waiting, he’s literally collapsed onto himself. A deck of cards, no more a castle and requiring just the lightest of breezes to blow him to the ground.
Is that what Changmin was? A breeze? A breath of fresh air?
Rather than sitting up, he forces Junsu to the ground with him.
“Squad told me to tell you we’re ready to break you out whenever you want,” Junsu sighs, the joke flat like a deflated balloon. “They also told me to tell you it’s not your fault… and I only say it because there’s bars between us.”
A snort that sounds like laughter and sobbing all at once breaks free from his throat. It’s a horrible noise but Yunho can’t bring himself to be embarrassed.
“How long are they going to keep you locked up?” Junsu presses, wanting to rouse him, wanting to shake him. Yunho can feel the impatience and the rush of energy in the other man’s limbs.
“Until Changmin comes back,” he whispers to the floor, which might as well be never. He’s being ridiculous, but he doesn’t care. His fists still ache, but not as hard as his chest. Another sob rumbles through his lungs. He swallows it down.
Junsu sighs, says something to the soldier on duty. The man retorts. Yunho drowns it out, closing his eyes and clinging to the memory of soft lips pliant against his own. He’s woken by the sound of keys and the barred door swinging open. Junsu doesn’t smile at the small accomplishment; he has to give him credit for that.
Together, Junsu and his soldier friend help him up. He’s got no dignity left, if he’s letting others draw him to his feet. But what does dignity matter now anyway? Changmin is gone.
“The Commander will object,” he breathes on a sigh, defeated, tired.
Yunho doesn’t miss the look shared between the two men. They carry it and him like he’s an invalid who can’t possibly understand. He can’t summon the strength to be enraged.
“The Commander locked you in because you put a gun in your mouth,” Junsu explains tentatively, as if afraid the information will shock another attempt into his Captain’s thoughts. “You tried to blackmail Command into turning the Acheron around and going back to M-617.”
Blackmail, there’s an ugly word. Just like murder. And Yunho feels guilty of both.
Junsu’s arm tightens slightly and he nods to the soldier. They’re left alone under fluorescent lights. “He was my best friend,” he thinks he hears the other man mutter and Yunho’s heart tightens painfully in his chest.
What was Changmin to him? Nothing?
He’s nothing now. Nothing could have survived that crash.
Yunho collapses into a familiar bunk. It’s not his, he wants to tell Junsu, but the younger man looks so earnest, so drained. Though he’s slept here often, the pillow still smells of Changmin. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent. There’s not a rustle, even though the quarters are full of grounded pilots. They all know better and none of them are fooled when he turns his face to the wall.
Sleep is deceptively effortless. His nightmares, less so.
***
The spacecraft sits in smoking ruin, crushed against the base of a tree. Small, dying fires spark and fade amongst the wreckage, the scene unnaturally still, with the exception of the stirring wildlife and the distant rush of water.
And the ragged breathing of one Shim Changmin.
Sprawled several feet away in the dense underbrush, as far as he’s managed to drag himself from the ruined craft. Shifting onto his back, he clutches at his right arm, choking on a deep, steadying breath. Trying to assess his injuries, trying to stay aware enough to do so.
He’s alive. That’s the good news.
Grimacing, he looks up into the thick foliage, focusing on breathing in and out for a long minute. His shoulder is dislocated. He can tell that much. Dragging his good hand up and out of the dirt, he moves it along his torso, checking his ribs. Bruised but not broken. Good. He can wiggle his toes. Also good.
There’s blood painting his face, but he seems to be able to think clearly enough, so no major head wounds. Good. Let it never be said that a helmet doesn’t save your life. The shoulder, though. He’ll have to snap it back into place.
A blanch.
Inhaling steadily, he uses his good arm to push himself into a sitting position, letting out a cry as the movement triggers a fresh stab of pain in his shoulder. He has to find something to wedge his hand in, keep it in place while he sets the limb.
A twisted piece of rebar does the task, cutting at his wrist but otherwise well suited, his breaths turning shallow again as he tries to prepare himself, biting down on the sleeve of his jacket. A single, hard pull and a wet pop and he’s muffling his screams in the thick fabric, pain exploding through his senses like a hail of gunfire.
When he can think past the agony, he listens to his own harsh breaths, freeing his bloodied hand and slumping to the ground. Should check the comm, Changmin thinks blearily, eyes falling shut. Distress call. Should…
A wave of black washes over him, carrying him with it into unconsciousness.
When he wakes again, the throb in his shoulder has dulled, the scenery and smell of charred metal hasn’t faded. And no one has come.
Dragging himself up to stand against the craft, he digs through the cockpit until he finds the comm controls, swearing when he hears nothing but dead air. His gaze slides up to the whole in the blanketed canopy, staring up to the sky as if he could see the Acheron. Nothing.
He has to move, he knows. They’d seen him go down, chances are they’d send someone to check it out and if that’s the case, he can’t let them find anything. Once glance at the craft says it’s irreparable, and so he feels onto the barest threads of remorse as he grabs his com-link, gun and a survival pack, sets fire to the leaking fuel tank and gets the hell out of there.
Changmin makes his way towards the distant sound of water-he’s disoriented and in unfamiliar surroundings, and so it sounds as good a marker as any. Fill up the canteen and go from there.
Where to, he doesn’t know. He’s on an enemy planet, dressed in an Imperial soldier’s garb, without communications or means of escape. And with the good chance that he’s been assumed dead. It’s a bleak situation; calling upon portions of his training that he’d hoped would never be brought to light.
Chances are, he’ll die here.
The morbidity of his thinking does nothing to steady his gait, nor motivate him to move faster. Thirst and aching wounds provide a bit more incentive. Still, a good piece of time passes before he reaches the spring, leaving him dizzy with exertion and dehydration. Sweat soaks his hair and his clothes, arm coming up to mop his brow. The climate is suffocating in this place, nothing like the cool, perpetual twilight of his homeworld.
Kneeling beside the spring, he drinks greedily, sliding out of his jacket with a hiss and ducking his head into the water. The rush of cool liquid clears the haze the heat has left him in, even as the water is tinged red from the cuts on his face.
He allows himself the momentary weakness of wishing desperately for Yunho.
Just fucking or no, the man won’t leave him here, right? Changmin knows he may not mean much to him but at least that. If nothing else but that they need their secrets intact, what little he’s trusted to keep. If for nothing else that he needs back a good pilot to ready for the next attack. If nothing else…
Smacking the water in frustration, he sits back on his heels. Strips the top half of his uniform until he’s in a white undershirt and his trousers, skin shining with sweat. He won’t need them, not on this planet and not amongst its population. A moment’s hesitation, the dog tags slip over his head, stuffed into his pocket.
He stares at his reflection in the water’s surface.
Oversized ears stick out with his military hair cut, the combination with his clean-shaven jaw and too wide eyes making him look younger than he is. Naïve. And while in his day to day life, it’s a constant source of frustration, in his current situation, it could help him endlessly.
If it will save his life, he’s content to play the child.
Stuffing the discarded pieces of his uniform behind a boulder and covering them with brush, he quickly fills his canteen and replaces it in the pack, slinging it over his good shoulder, his other arm still hanging uselessly at his side.
He walks for a long time, following the water south, unsure and unaware of where it is he’s going, but needing to do something. Unable to just sit by and wait to starve to death. Checking his comm from time to time, futilely. The block on their frequency is still in place.
An hour passes, maybe two, and he sits down in the grass, running a hand through slick hair and lowering his head to his knees, feeling the world shift drunkenly around him. He wishes himself back in the barracks, that the heat painting his skin is that of passion, that the sweat sliding between his shoulder blades is traced by a skillful tongue. Wishes to be anywhere but here and wishes this not to be happening.
And gods, he’s fitting the child so effortlessly.
Yunho wouldn’t sit here and feel sorry for himself, he thinks angrily, an endless time of hero-worshiping the older man difficult to shake. And if it gets him moving, gets him out of here, all the better for it. Get up.
He pushes himself to his feet, determination renewed and takes a step forward, only to hear the slow metallic clicks of safeties sliding off weapons.
Shit.
It makes sense, then, why mechanics barely comment on the blown up engine in his craft. Why Command doesn’t ask to meet him immediately so they can tear down his poor planning, his risk-taking attitude.
Junsu watches him carefully, the only one who dares to. A gaze, heavy with meaning, passes between them. Junsu shakes his head. The memory ends.
Other images come to mind: Changmin, gasping for breath, cropped dark hair sticking to his scalp as he pushes him harder into the mattress; Changmin, glaring back from his seat on C Deck after a briefing; Changmin, a rookie, a star pilot in the Imperial Guard.
Gone.
Yunho hits the wall with force he doesn’t think he still posses. His fists ache-did he fight someone already? It doesn’t matter. He keeps drilling his hands into harsh, unforgiving metal, punishing himself. He used to do the same thing when he was twelve and didn’t understand the things his father said to him; the things that made his mother cry.
It didn’t work then, it doesn’t work now. Male nurses bring him to his knees and a needle is pushed into his arm. Silence claims him.
He dreams of insects crawling into his cockpit, his guns useless against mounting fear. He dreams of shapes he doesn’t understand and sees the old banners in flames. In every dream, he’s trying to cry out but finds himself incapable. The great Jung Yunho, recruited from the steps of his school into the Junior Force at fifteen, Lieutenant by 19, the first Captain to lead his squadron to take down a rebel base single-handed - unable to speak.
When he wakes, the sense of impotence stays with him, but he’s no longer alone.
An old man nods at him from the other side of the bars. “Captain.”
For a moment, Yunho is lost. Who is this man, his father? Amnesia would be too kind and a moment later, memories crash onto him with rippling force.
“Commander,” he salutes, standing on formality when he’s lost all rank, all respect, no doubt.
The old man grunts, shifts on his feet. This is as much his failure as it is Yunho’s, he must realise that. If he does or doesn’t, his eyes certainly show no semblance of feeling from beneath thick eyebrows.
“Your behaviour this afternoon has been formally pardoned, but you are placed on temporary leave.”
Yunho doesn’t contest this. What he did is unpardonable, but the Disciplinary Sergeant could’ve said as much. The Commander isn’t here to deliver a sentence. There’s more to his lecture and Yunho isn’t sure he wants to hear it.
They failed. They left a man behind.
No. He failed.
“Lieutenant Shim’s service has been postponed,” the old man announces, as if he knows the particulars of their relationship. A month earlier and Yunho might have credited him with such mysterious knowledge. Things change.
“Until the body is recovered?” he asks before he can stop himself, clinging to that possibility, the chance of seeing Changmin laid to rest in one piece. It’s less horrible to entertain than the thought of his remains scattered on some deserted planet, feeding the soil of the unforgiving homeworld that took his life.
The Commander lets out a long breath but doesn’t invite the private on guard to release Yunho. “At least you’re accepting of his death,” he sighs, avoiding the question. “The Acheron is engaged in a fleet-wide operation. It is vital that I have your cooperation.” And by you, Yunho knows he means of his squadron. The Delta Phi’s are the backbone of any offensive manoeuvre that the old Commander hopes to partake in.
He nods, inviting to hear the rest of it. He knows where this is going, now.
“I have called back our search parties. There’s nothing we can do for Shim’s family. The planet is infested with anti-aircraft scramblers and defence systems. We can’t land and we can’t scan from the atmosphere.”
Changmin is, to all intents and purposes, abandoned.
The Commander keeps speaking. Something about Yunho cooperating and keeping his private thoughts to himself, something about how it’s necessary to make sacrifices in a time of war. It’s all empty words and Yunho blocks him out, sliding to the cold ground.
Time passes slowly. Night falls over his mind, drowning him in darker thoughts than ever before. He berates himself half-heartedly. Out in the black, it’s always night, but when the guard changes, Yunho doesn’t expect to see a familiar face.
“Hey,” he smiles weakly, getting an even weaker smile in response.
Junsu nods towards the mattress-less bunk. “Something wrong with the bed?”
It’s funny, but that’s what it takes for him to realise he’s lying on the floor. No longer kneeling, no longer waiting, he’s literally collapsed onto himself. A deck of cards, no more a castle and requiring just the lightest of breezes to blow him to the ground.
Is that what Changmin was? A breeze? A breath of fresh air?
Rather than sitting up, he forces Junsu to the ground with him.
“Squad told me to tell you we’re ready to break you out whenever you want,” Junsu sighs, the joke flat like a deflated balloon. “They also told me to tell you it’s not your fault… and I only say it because there’s bars between us.”
A snort that sounds like laughter and sobbing all at once breaks free from his throat. It’s a horrible noise but Yunho can’t bring himself to be embarrassed.
“How long are they going to keep you locked up?” Junsu presses, wanting to rouse him, wanting to shake him. Yunho can feel the impatience and the rush of energy in the other man’s limbs.
“Until Changmin comes back,” he whispers to the floor, which might as well be never. He’s being ridiculous, but he doesn’t care. His fists still ache, but not as hard as his chest. Another sob rumbles through his lungs. He swallows it down.
Junsu sighs, says something to the soldier on duty. The man retorts. Yunho drowns it out, closing his eyes and clinging to the memory of soft lips pliant against his own. He’s woken by the sound of keys and the barred door swinging open. Junsu doesn’t smile at the small accomplishment; he has to give him credit for that.
Together, Junsu and his soldier friend help him up. He’s got no dignity left, if he’s letting others draw him to his feet. But what does dignity matter now anyway? Changmin is gone.
“The Commander will object,” he breathes on a sigh, defeated, tired.
Yunho doesn’t miss the look shared between the two men. They carry it and him like he’s an invalid who can’t possibly understand. He can’t summon the strength to be enraged.
“The Commander locked you in because you put a gun in your mouth,” Junsu explains tentatively, as if afraid the information will shock another attempt into his Captain’s thoughts. “You tried to blackmail Command into turning the Acheron around and going back to M-617.”
Blackmail, there’s an ugly word. Just like murder. And Yunho feels guilty of both.
Junsu’s arm tightens slightly and he nods to the soldier. They’re left alone under fluorescent lights. “He was my best friend,” he thinks he hears the other man mutter and Yunho’s heart tightens painfully in his chest.
What was Changmin to him? Nothing?
He’s nothing now. Nothing could have survived that crash.
Yunho collapses into a familiar bunk. It’s not his, he wants to tell Junsu, but the younger man looks so earnest, so drained. Though he’s slept here often, the pillow still smells of Changmin. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent. There’s not a rustle, even though the quarters are full of grounded pilots. They all know better and none of them are fooled when he turns his face to the wall.
Sleep is deceptively effortless. His nightmares, less so.
***
The spacecraft sits in smoking ruin, crushed against the base of a tree. Small, dying fires spark and fade amongst the wreckage, the scene unnaturally still, with the exception of the stirring wildlife and the distant rush of water.
And the ragged breathing of one Shim Changmin.
Sprawled several feet away in the dense underbrush, as far as he’s managed to drag himself from the ruined craft. Shifting onto his back, he clutches at his right arm, choking on a deep, steadying breath. Trying to assess his injuries, trying to stay aware enough to do so.
He’s alive. That’s the good news.
Grimacing, he looks up into the thick foliage, focusing on breathing in and out for a long minute. His shoulder is dislocated. He can tell that much. Dragging his good hand up and out of the dirt, he moves it along his torso, checking his ribs. Bruised but not broken. Good. He can wiggle his toes. Also good.
There’s blood painting his face, but he seems to be able to think clearly enough, so no major head wounds. Good. Let it never be said that a helmet doesn’t save your life. The shoulder, though. He’ll have to snap it back into place.
A blanch.
Inhaling steadily, he uses his good arm to push himself into a sitting position, letting out a cry as the movement triggers a fresh stab of pain in his shoulder. He has to find something to wedge his hand in, keep it in place while he sets the limb.
A twisted piece of rebar does the task, cutting at his wrist but otherwise well suited, his breaths turning shallow again as he tries to prepare himself, biting down on the sleeve of his jacket. A single, hard pull and a wet pop and he’s muffling his screams in the thick fabric, pain exploding through his senses like a hail of gunfire.
When he can think past the agony, he listens to his own harsh breaths, freeing his bloodied hand and slumping to the ground. Should check the comm, Changmin thinks blearily, eyes falling shut. Distress call. Should…
A wave of black washes over him, carrying him with it into unconsciousness.
When he wakes again, the throb in his shoulder has dulled, the scenery and smell of charred metal hasn’t faded. And no one has come.
Dragging himself up to stand against the craft, he digs through the cockpit until he finds the comm controls, swearing when he hears nothing but dead air. His gaze slides up to the whole in the blanketed canopy, staring up to the sky as if he could see the Acheron. Nothing.
He has to move, he knows. They’d seen him go down, chances are they’d send someone to check it out and if that’s the case, he can’t let them find anything. Once glance at the craft says it’s irreparable, and so he feels onto the barest threads of remorse as he grabs his com-link, gun and a survival pack, sets fire to the leaking fuel tank and gets the hell out of there.
Changmin makes his way towards the distant sound of water-he’s disoriented and in unfamiliar surroundings, and so it sounds as good a marker as any. Fill up the canteen and go from there.
Where to, he doesn’t know. He’s on an enemy planet, dressed in an Imperial soldier’s garb, without communications or means of escape. And with the good chance that he’s been assumed dead. It’s a bleak situation; calling upon portions of his training that he’d hoped would never be brought to light.
Chances are, he’ll die here.
The morbidity of his thinking does nothing to steady his gait, nor motivate him to move faster. Thirst and aching wounds provide a bit more incentive. Still, a good piece of time passes before he reaches the spring, leaving him dizzy with exertion and dehydration. Sweat soaks his hair and his clothes, arm coming up to mop his brow. The climate is suffocating in this place, nothing like the cool, perpetual twilight of his homeworld.
Kneeling beside the spring, he drinks greedily, sliding out of his jacket with a hiss and ducking his head into the water. The rush of cool liquid clears the haze the heat has left him in, even as the water is tinged red from the cuts on his face.
He allows himself the momentary weakness of wishing desperately for Yunho.
Just fucking or no, the man won’t leave him here, right? Changmin knows he may not mean much to him but at least that. If nothing else but that they need their secrets intact, what little he’s trusted to keep. If for nothing else that he needs back a good pilot to ready for the next attack. If nothing else…
Smacking the water in frustration, he sits back on his heels. Strips the top half of his uniform until he’s in a white undershirt and his trousers, skin shining with sweat. He won’t need them, not on this planet and not amongst its population. A moment’s hesitation, the dog tags slip over his head, stuffed into his pocket.
He stares at his reflection in the water’s surface.
Oversized ears stick out with his military hair cut, the combination with his clean-shaven jaw and too wide eyes making him look younger than he is. Naïve. And while in his day to day life, it’s a constant source of frustration, in his current situation, it could help him endlessly.
If it will save his life, he’s content to play the child.
Stuffing the discarded pieces of his uniform behind a boulder and covering them with brush, he quickly fills his canteen and replaces it in the pack, slinging it over his good shoulder, his other arm still hanging uselessly at his side.
He walks for a long time, following the water south, unsure and unaware of where it is he’s going, but needing to do something. Unable to just sit by and wait to starve to death. Checking his comm from time to time, futilely. The block on their frequency is still in place.
An hour passes, maybe two, and he sits down in the grass, running a hand through slick hair and lowering his head to his knees, feeling the world shift drunkenly around him. He wishes himself back in the barracks, that the heat painting his skin is that of passion, that the sweat sliding between his shoulder blades is traced by a skillful tongue. Wishes to be anywhere but here and wishes this not to be happening.
And gods, he’s fitting the child so effortlessly.
Yunho wouldn’t sit here and feel sorry for himself, he thinks angrily, an endless time of hero-worshiping the older man difficult to shake. And if it gets him moving, gets him out of here, all the better for it. Get up.
He pushes himself to his feet, determination renewed and takes a step forward, only to hear the slow metallic clicks of safeties sliding off weapons.
Shit.