Moon Theory [BL]

They walk in silence – or, it’s as silent as it can be with the incessant downpour.

Two young men trudge through an open field, cautiously stepping over withered grass, avoiding obvious pits – like, say, the strange holes in the soil. They may be wormholes or rattlesnake homes, but neither of them is intent on finding out.

Uncomfortable silence. Yang Rong hasn’t said a word since two hours ago.

Noah has never been alone with the colonel before, and it is now that he’s aware of how poised the latter is. Colonel Yang remains unperturbed and strangely self-assured despite being dressed in a too-thin shirt, despite being soaked for half a day in freezing tundra temperatures. There is a limit to even an alpha’s constitution, but Yang Rong is… unnaturally calm.

There is a split in the road. Yang Rong takes the lead without blinking an eye. He wears the same black backpack over his firm, unshaken back. Noah follows tacitly.

There are many questions lingering in the back of his mind. Where they’re headed, how long he’s been out, how much longer they’d have to endure… because Noah is on the verge of passing out again. He knows his limits and, when his vision is half compromised with grainy black, his breaths coming out shorter and shorter per step, legs about to buckle down – thirty minutes max and he’ll fall.

He isn’t made for combat like the colonel is. He isn’t made at all, really, to endure such strenuous hikes and as much as he doesn’t want to be a liability, he also does not want to topple down mid-walk.

Noah breaks the silence first to ask, “Where are we heading?”

His syllables are low-pitched and throaty, the intonation so faint it hardly carries through the sound of rain. And perhaps Yang Rong hears how strained he sounds, for the man finally pauses in his steps to look at him.

“District 39’s military base,” the man says, his eyes doing a full-body sweep of his condition. “Three hundred miles away, though it looks like we’d have to make several stops.”

Three hundred miles away and by foot – the sane part of Noah’s mind would like to stress how physically impossible it is without making stops. Assuming the two of them can trek four miles an hour, five if they push it, the estimate would be three days.

Noah, however, does not voice his thoughts.

Brewing tension. It is unclear what the colonel is thinking. His expression is sharp and calm as usual, his lips slack and his features still striking, but he’s too calm – abnormally so, that it seeps of apprehension.

When he spoke, as well, his voice lacked emotion. Clean, crisp, precise. As expected of a war colonel, but not as expected from the foolhardy man Noah had become… mildly acquainted with. Sometimes Noah forgets that Yang Rong, for all his idiocy and tease, has a cold and ruthless disposition.

It’s more obvious when he’s donned in noir, when his scars are on full display, when his stench is mixed with foul blood and battle spoils. And Yang Rong, who’d been separated with his unit – unsure if any are alive or dead – is exceptionally frightening now.

The calm is a façade – or perhaps the colonel’s learned to deal with such situations, such losses, so often he no longer dwells anymore.

“Sorry,” Noah whispers. “You did not have to come for me.”

Thundercrack. The skies rumble ominously and in their vicinity, a power pole, a remnant of the past, is struck heavily. The ground seems to shake along, the current sending small vibrations to the only two people here.

Yang Rong’s stare is uncomfortable. Noah doesn’t even have to look to feel the colonel’s presence, his commandeering aura, those dangerous features. He can already conjure an image in his head. Perhaps the colonel would look as chilling as he did on the vessel ship when he shot a man mercilessly. Yet, when the muzzle smoked in the aftermath, Colonel Yang simply turned to him with charismatic, emerald green eyes.

They were brutally captivating.

Yang Rong takes a step forward and he takes a step back. Subconsciously.

“Noah,” the man says and then Noah flinches. Instinctively.

A pair of hands reaches out to him and cups his cheeks. Yang Rong squishes him, first softly, and then more vigorously as he begins to pinch his tender skin, not stopping even as Noah lets out a low whine. The colonel seems to enjoy his flustered reaction, even going as far as to rub at the sore spot afterward.

Yang Rong leans forward, chuckles and says, “Noah, why would I not come for you?”

And no, Noah is not attached to the man, but there’s a feeling of being so smothered, so vulnerable in front of him. Colonel Yang, a military man, an alpha, bears a peculiarly handsome, oddly comforting smile.

Yang Rong says again, “If you have time for such useless thoughts, how about you put your pretty eyes to work and find us some firewood, hm? It would be a pain if you were to faint again – I believe almost dying once is enough for the day?”

Noah doesn’t brush off the hands that are still stroking the side of his face, sliding down the wet locks of his hair and then to his ears. Soft rubs meant to appease.

“…Mn.”

The dazzling smile is still plastered onto the man’s face, except now it’s turned into more of a smirk. Yang Rong, pleased at the obedience, playfully ruffles his hair – he doesn’t stop – and that cold, ruthless countenance has turned playful.

“Good. Now will you stop trailing so far behind? It’s almost as if I’m escorting a prisoner—and I do believe we’ve past that stage of our acquaintanceship, am I correct?”

“…?” Noah looks at him strangely. “Uncertain. We haven’t established any positive relationship.”

“Really? Aren’t I treating you quite well?”

Noah furrows his brows. “Since when?”

“Since… now?” The colonel tugs more insistently at the silver strands of his hair, relishing in the way they fluff up daintily by his ears. Rain dew trickles down to the tips, looking particularly radiant despite the gloomy, lowlight skies. Yang Rong murmurs, unsure if meant for him to hear at all, “I’ve been thinking that you are really… eye-catching for a beta.”

Noah pushes his hands away. Colonel Yang is slightly stunned.

A part of him would like to laugh – because of course the colonel would be so stereotypically alpha, classifying him like that, looking down with such a superiority complex that sends unpleasant tinges down his spine. Noah throws on his hood – ignores the way the pooled rain splashes on top of him – and says simply, “Let’s keep moving.”

Yang Rong frowns. “What is—"

“I’d prefer if you kept meaningless conversation to a minimum,” he replies. “Better yet, there is no need to converse whatsoever.”

With that, he treks off, passing the colonel and taking a turn to the right. His expression is schooled back to impassiveness. Despite the light, feverish flush on his cheek, Noah remains stoic as he walks – both hands in his pockets, his eyesight glued firmly ahead.

“Hey.”

Before he can put more distance between them, Yang Rong grabs him by the upper arm, effectively halting him in his steps. There’s tension brewing again, coagulating like thick smog, curdling around them amidst rainfall. Yang Rong’s grip is not enough to hurt, but enough to be forceful – if not physically, then viscerally.

The man drops his voice, speaking lowly yet it registers clearly into his ears. “You are really fickle, Noah. Clinging onto me one second and being incorrigibly rude the next – tell me, do you dislike me that much?”

Noah turns and stares at him coldly. “Do not touch me, Colonel Yang. It is painful to be stranded here with you of all people.”

Yang Rong’s expression darkens – and his grip, too, tightens so he can’t move away. “Do you think I enjoy being stranded here, Noah? It wasn’t fun for me, either, when I dove into negative five-degrees waters, when I rowed us here, when I resuscitated you a millisecond away from death – and should I have not touched you then, when you were paler than a corpse?”

Noah knows he’s being illogical – probably so does Yang Rong, but the both of them are keen on confrontation and neither is open to backing away. This is not the time to be engaging in insignificant conflict, as he’d like to put it. However, Noah, for all his rationale and all his wit, is incorrigibly stubborn.

So he spits out, “You are the exact type of person I despise, Colonel Yang.”

The rational part of him believes it’s about time Yang Rong would put a bullet through his head – he’d always wanted to, did he not? – or it’s about time Yang Rong takes the knife away and pierces him cleanly through the chest. An anomaly such as he has no reason to remain alive (he thinks he’d overstayed).

He remembers how sharp the dagger was, and then he sees that the colonel’s expression mirrors edge-like intensity, that harrowing dull color of his irises pinpointing him predatorily. Noah may be feverish, sickly and ashen-white, but still he does not yield.

They lock eye contact. One second, five seconds, then a flash of mania – frenzy – that overtakes Yang Rong’s features. Immediately, the man rips the black dagger out of Noah’s belt, pushes him aside and stabs forward.

An unseen predator that Noah hadn’t prepared for.

Like a ghastly apparition, the prowling creature flits to the side and lets out an ear-piercing roar. Yang Rong’s movements are a blur, almost invisible to the naked eye as he slashes at it, mutilating a part of its jaw. The polar wolf, with the deadliest carnassial teeth ever witnessed, drools out slobs of viscous brown and red.

There may be reindeer fur stuck in between the molars, but they haven’t time to study it before the creature howls and sinks its teeth into Yang Rong’s arm. A sinister crunch, and then a sharp grunt of pain – Yang Rong struggles to get out of the wolf’s grasp. Even with its lower jaw chopped off, the canine is ferocious.

Colonel Yang does eventually pry it off. The slightest contortion on his face is all he gives out before he stabs the dagger cleanly into its skull – three quick stabs and then one more under the neck for assurance. His arm is bleeding out repulsively, mixing with dribbles of strange brown goo that trails down his wrists.

Noah, still stumbled to the side, doesn’t have time to recollect himself – the battle’s lasted for all of three seconds – before he’s picked up and thrown over Yang Rong’s shoulder. Firefighter carry, half of his body dangling limply downward.

He may have had a protest at the tip of his tongue, but Colonel Yang ignores him completely and sprints, running so fast his ribs clash awkwardly against the latter’s back.

“…!” Noah gasps at the sudden action. “Colonel—"

“Complain to me later!” the man shouts as he runs. “But right now, there’s another goddamn pack of wolves coming after us – are you some kind of magnet?! Why do we run into the most perilous of situations—fuck, Noah, I’m warning you, you better keep your grievances to yourself or your Rong-ge will really be furious and spank you ten times!”