Moon Theory [BL]

Hundreds of tons of aluminum flip over, the navy vessel capsizing down relentless waves, the passengers all going down under. In twilight, their vision is so limited none of them have time to brace for the fish torpedoing in their direction. They are swept separate ways, hunted down by flesh-crazed anomalies.

The seas are their playing ground and the soldiers are grimly struggling to shoot them down. The hammerhead shark is barreling into the colonel’s direction. It had taken three bullets to the gill and one to the underbelly. Yet, it still lives to chomp at him.

Yang Rong throws his body forward, propelling himself with the water current, and slams the hilt of his rifle on the creature. It lets out a mighty roar and lunges for him again.

“Colonel!” Jae can be heard shouting at him. The young soldier spits out a mouthful of water. “Don’t… blergh—don’t let get close! It is! Radioactive!”

“I am very much aware of that, you brat!” In such a dire circumstance, Yang Rong still has time to tell the fool to keep his mouth shut and stop spewing unnecessarily obvious things. Of course, the hammerhead would be radioactive – Colonel Yang is not blind to miss the three fins on its lateral line, all of them streaked candescent blue, not natural in the slightest.

It looms closer and Yang Rong reaches for his knife. His hand comes back empty – he’d forgotten he lent it. “Quickly, Noah, give me my—"

Noah is… not here, even though he was plastered to his side just a moment ago. Yang Rong frowns and does a quick sweep over the vicinity. No sight of silver hair anywhere – not by Jae’s side, not by Li Jiayun’s, not by Yoo Seok who is dealing with a gathering of his own. Ming Tang is clinging onto a piece of floating debris, some wooden remains from the ship deck. The child will be fine since he’s wearing an inflatable, but…

“Little kid.” Yang Rong strikes the shark again with zero hesitation, digging his rifle into a beady eye socket. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Ming Tang says raspingly. “But Noah can’t swim—"

“I’m asking where he fell!” He’s losing his patience. He shouldn’t be this riled up at a twelve-year-old kid, let alone one he’s not acquainted with. Yang Rong groans, kicks the shark – now almost dead and flapping on the surface – and says, “Group up with the rest. Don’t wait up – colonel’s orders, get to the boat and get the fuck out of here. Here, take this.”

He throws an oxygen pack meters over to Ming Tang. It lands precisely where the boy is, floating atop the surface of the water. Then, Yang Rong decisively dives downward.

Colonel Yang is beyond fit and athletic, but even he is hindered by the massive waves plummeting him into a bottomless hole. He wades through the currents, whipping his head to spot any sign of Noah – that goddamn menace, his mind supplies. The saltwater stings his eyes, compromising most of his vision. All around him are dark navy blues and blacks, and the sole source of light comes from the small flashlight strapped onto his belt.

A fish, tuna or some demented form of one, swims by him and scrapes the side of his chest. Yang Rong inwardly curses at how much the wound stings – he braves through anyway, going full speed ahead, never stopping in his search.

He sees him.

In the depths, a person so eye-catching he almost glows. Silver hair, fair skin, a translucence that isn’t covered by the fabric of his clothes. Noah is elegant even in the way he falls – Yang Rong is mildly distracted by his grace, his slightly parted lips, his blank, unblinking eyes. There’s melancholy in his form.

Then, Noah’s lips tug up subtly, sadly – and fuck, he looks so distressed that Yang Rong feels it too.

Light swirls of blood circle Noah in a bubble and no one else can get inside. If he could speak, Yang Rong would’ve spilled enough curses to send him to hell and back to the surface – because why isn’t Noah struggling at all?

Yang Rong dives, grabs him and pulls him forward. He’d used enough strength to leave marks on his forearm but still, Noah doesn’t give much of a reaction. It’s unclear what he’s thinking – not much, probably, because he doesn’t glance at Yang Rong even as he’s pulled up. Pallid skin, lips that have lost color. His eyes, though, are still hauntingly captivating.

Yang Rong pulls him into an embrace – spur of the moment – and wraps his arms around his frail body. If he uses more strength, he’s afraid Noah would break completely.

‘Where are you looking at?’

He holds him closer.

‘I am here.’

---

Twilight fades to dusk, and even then, it continues to pour. Cumulus clouds have consumed the skies, not letting through a single blotch of sunlight. Noah wakes up with a rough jitter, his body subconsciously jolting as thundercrack strikes a nearby tree. It takes most of his energy to open his eyes and it takes minutes for him to catch up to alacrity.

He’s being jostled around, the movement so rough he would be sent toppling over if not for the arms that carry him steady. Loud crashes. Wailing wind that sends over a barrage of rain, blitzing the tender skin of his face. Low grunts, hoarse breathing, a quiet curse by his ears.

He is hoisted on the broadness of Yang Rong’s back. Noah’s cheek is plastered onto the crook of the colonel’s neck – heavy musk, distracting caramel – and his arms are dangling limply in front. The ride is so bumpy – they’re running from something – and it does little to help his stabbing headache. Noah lets out a soft, pained noise.

“Noah,” the colonel’s tone is strained, “it isn’t the most ideal situation to wake up to, but I do suggest you hang on tight.”

A wide turn almost flings him out of orbit, and he wraps his arms around Yang Rong’s neck. If it’s hard enough to cut off circulation, the latter doesn’t complain. Noah inhales sharply – he’s parched, cold, tired.

“What is… the situation?” he asks raspingly.

Yang Rong is moving so quickly the scenery whizzes in fast-forward. All he catches are splotches of brown, dried-out leaves, forest trees, rapid flashes of light. Ahead of them are wet plains that span for countless miles.

“As you may figure—” Yang Rong grunts out, “we are running.”

If in a more coherent state of mind, Noah would reply with something else sarcastic but alas, he opts to stay quiet and suppress his snark. Two more minutes at a grueling pace and Yang Rong still hasn’t lost whatever’s on their tail. Noah has to hand it to the man for being so athletic – enough to haul him like a ragdoll and sprint in sonic speed.

The piggyback ride, though, is extremely uncomfortable. Enough to send immense pulsations.

“Colonel Yang, my head hurts.”

Yang Rong curses under his breath. “Are you a little girl?! It’s just a little pain! Keep quiet, Noah, else we’d be eaten by your extended family of bobcats!”

“…” Noah begrudging plops his face downward, no longer willing to speak. It is then he realizes that the colonel is in quite a miserable state. At such a close distance – their bodies are plastered onto each other – Noah can hear the dithers of his pulse. His combat uniform, the same tattered one, is clinging onto his upright figure, dipping onto dents of muscle.

He trails his eyes downward. Yang Rong’s back is littered with even more cuts and scrapes now – raw wounds not yet dressed and still seeping out blood. It’s no wonder he feels a murky warmth by his chest. The colonel has suffered from a lot of wounds, but none seem to affect him radioactively – visibly, at least. Noah files out a mental note to check later.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“On the boat or—” A flash of black and Yang Rong swerves them both to the side, crashing against a boulder. The impact nearly topples them both over. “Or on the run? Because, tch, Noah… you’d be guilty if I told you the truth.”

“Put me down,” Noah instructs him, tapping him on the shoulder. “I can walk.”

“I’ll put you down, but you’re going to run, not walk.” Yang Rong kicks a large rock, slamming it against the predator – a large, hulking blur of noir – and then crouches for Noah to get off. “Keep up with me else we really will be eaten.”

As soon as his shoes reach the ground, Noah is dragged – heaved – out of the way, the colonel’s hands wrapping the slender of his wrists. Noah, still wobbling back to alertness, finds himself an inch away from a razor-sharp talon, dirt-stained and ominously scarlet.

The bobcat has a pair of carnal, dripping fangs. The radiation has made it so its body stretches a meter more than natural, and that tail, cougar-like, is long and covered in eerie blisters. When it pounces once more, Noah ducks and launches himself away. In jetlagged motion, he catches sight of the creature’s rusty, wan yellow eyes.

The color doesn’t mirror his own – the bobcat is pallid and ashen, while Noah has certain ethereal, quaint charm. Noah reaches for his belt, pulls out a knife (Colonel Yang’s) and slashes upward smoothly, cutting off the feline’s left foreleg.

The dagger is effective and sharp – so much that even Noah is surprised by how cleanly it cuts through the bone. It takes a delayed second for the mutilated area to ooze out unsightly fluids. He grimaces as it spills onto his shirt but there isn’t time to linger on it, for the bobcat lets out a rumbling growl in retaliation.

Before it recovers, Colonel Yang slams its head with the hilt of his assault rifle. It flops meekly to the ground and Noah takes the chance to pierce its neck. The creature falls dead. Ugly splatters lump with the wet soil underneath, and Noah finally leans against the nearby boulder to catch his breath.

Yang Rong gives a low whistle by the side. It hints of tease. “You are very fierce, little kitten.”

“Colonel Yang,” Noah gasps out. “You should shoot it.”

“I’ve been out of ammo since three hours ago.” Yang Rang walks up to him and places both hands on either side of his body, trapping him against the boulder. He sends him a relaxed smirk. “Your Rong-ge took down sea monsters for you – the kraken, I believe, around three or four of them. Will you repay me?”

“…The kraken?” he murmurs. He thinks about it for a few seconds before diverging the topic. With a small frown, he asks, “Where are we and what happened?”

“The other end of the Paramus. A few hundred miles from District 39, a hinterland crawling with wolves and muskoxen.”

The two of them are so close. Colonel Yang emits much-welcomed body heat and, despite being dressed in only one thin shirt, he feels warmer than Noah who dons two jackets. Yang Rong presses him deeper against the boulder, purposefully connecting their bodies together.

The colonel is made of rock – chiseled abdominals, rough concaves that can be felt through layers of cloth. The wet fabric of his shirt dips on his edges, leaving very little to the imagination. Yang Rong narrows his eyes – dangerously – and then he drops his voice to a low, clandestine whisper by Noah’s ears.

“As for what happened… Noah, I am still waiting on your excuse.”

There isn’t space for him to back away. Noah shifts slightly, only to be locked in place again and they’re so close – close enough for him to catch of a whiff of brewing alpha pheromones, dark and heavy for reasons unknown. The colonel has an ounce of blood dribbling down his neck. A nick.

Noah subconsciously licks his lips. Parched.

“…What sort of excuse are you looking for?”

Yang Rong’s gaze lowers to the jut of his lower lip. “You haven’t thought about it? I asked a very specific question.”

“From our first unfortunate encounter until now, you have asked many questions.”

“None of which you answered. This time, I want a proper response.” The man leans even closer – their noses almost brush now – and then asks with a sinfully magnetic voice, so distracting it hides the danger in his eyes. “Did you want to die, Noah?”

Noah furrows his brows and answers slowly, “I don’t.”

“Then, what were you thinking when you were drowning, Noah?” Again, his name is danced on the tip of the colonel’s tongue, coated in honey, spit out like daggers. The way it’s said sends unrest, and Noah is pressed to obey. Yang Rong disregards his personal space and abuses from a position of dominance. “Would you care to tell me as token for saving your life?”

“Colonel Yang…" Noah squirms. “You are too close…”

Yang Rong merely quirks an eyebrow, not retreating from his spot.

Noah doesn’t have the energy to struggle out of the uncomfortable press. His headache isn’t going away and if he delays even longer, the fever (and the heat in his system, the lumpy pain by his stomach) is only going to worsen. He sighs softly and, with some hesitance, says, “I wasn’t thinking anything. I’ve never learned to swim, Colonel Yang, so there wasn’t much I could have done.”

A sigh. The man finally backs away, though his gloomy countenance indicates he’s not pleased.

“If you do not know how to swim…” Yang Rong turns around, readjusts his rifle over his shoulder and says, “Next time, be closer to me so I can catch you.”