fadeaway.

you’re out with sungho during a surface run. it’s nothing too out of the ordinary - a quick run because the pantry is growing worryingly empty and riwoo’s on the edge again and leehan has been gone for a few hours already. you had cornered a wild boar into a dilapidated tunnel - but it had lunged at you with a ferocity that comes with owning the city. you froze - something you weren’t exactly proud of.

but sungho didn’t.

he moved with such composure and assuredness you didn’t truly process it until it was over. sungho had click back his rifle and wiped his hands clean on his jacket, looking at you with the simplicity that came with something like filling up a glass of water rather than shooting a bullet in between the eyes of a boar.

“are you okay?” he asked softly.

“fine,” you stuttered.

sungho acted akin to a domesticated cat, but he had that instinct underneath anyways - that human desire to stay alive, no matter what it took. he didn’t even flinch at the creatures with human faces either - the ones that had the wrong shape and limped at you. sungho puts them down clean and doesn’t lose sleep over it. they’re gone anyways, he said, wiping down his rifle with a rag, we’re doing them a kindness.

you toss and turn at night, trying your best not to rouse the other members curled up in their kots.

“can’t sleep?” he towers over your makeshift bed like a statue, the faint glow of the light casting his shadow over you as his hair falls into his face. he casts a look at woonhak, who is curled up next to your head, inches from falling off the edge of his mattress.

“i’m too old for bedtime stories,” you whisper, scooting up until you’re sitting up against the wall. he sits down anyways, and you curl into him, his arm coming up to wrap around you.

he tells you them anyways, his voice quiet so he doesn’t wake up woonhak who is snoring away beside the two of you.

“sungho.”

“mm?”

“we’re not going to sleep, are we?”

he looks down at you.

“do you want to?”

you look him in the eyes.

“no, not really.”

then you kiss him, unhurried like you have all the time in the world.

his hand moves to your jaw, and the bunker around you disappears completely.

when you break for air, he nudges his forehead against your’s, mumbling against your lips.

“since you don’t intend on sleeping, why don’t we do something fun? you’ll have to be quiet, though.”

#리우 RIWOO

the thing about riwoo is that he’s actually funny.

it’s like his brain never switches off - he jumps at any opportunity to crack jokes and entertain you. if this was before, he’d probably have an audience of thousands - but he’s stuck doing stand-up for seven people in a reinforced basement and they love him for it possibly more than any crowd ever could.

for a brief moment, when he comments on woonhak’s stumbling of words or make noises nobody expects, it feels normal - your concrete home turns momentarily human with riwoo in the center.

chef riwoo claims the makeshift kitchen as his own. its a poor excuse of one - a few stacked cardboard boxes and rusted tins. riwoo makes do with what you have, which isn’t a lot to begin with. he’ll spend an hour on a can of beans, coaxing them into something that tastes like deliberation. he’ll somehow scrounge up a bundle of sad, dried herbs from behind a shelf and savour them like how a sommelier might with wine. a sprinkle of rosemary, he says, deadly serious, even though it smells like nothing to you. he’ll serve you it on a platter, paired with our evening crackers. you’ve realised he likes to watch while you eat, a set line in his forehead until you take that first bite of food and smile.

the other thing about riwoo is that he doesn’t like it here.

you realised when, two months in, he cheerfully gestured to the bare walls and laughed. it’s like summer camp! he says lightly, and we’re all dorms mates. isn’t this basically just a very underground camp? leehan played along, laughing, and riwoo’s face had a flash of something that looked like relief.

he doesn’t talk about outside, even though he’s probably old enough to remember something like sungho. he reroutes any conversation that edges in that direction with a precison of a surgeon with a scalpel. he hums loudly when jaehyun tries to walk through logistics, and when sungho starts talking about skyscrapers he pointedly gets up and walks away, or produces a story wholly unrelated, usually involving himself in some comedic situation, and usually very successful in changing the subject.

you catch him one day, standing in front of his corner, not moving - his face doing something it rarely does - stock still and serious.

he clocked you in about two seconds and the smile came back up like a blind snapping shut.

“oh, good. it’s just you,” he says, “we’re… running low on some stuff.”

you cast a look at the empty shelf, pitiful with just a few cans of who-knows-what.

“hey,” you say, stepping closer and taking his hand.

he looks at it, and then drops his forehead onto your shoulder, like how a tree branch might fall under it’s own weight. your arms naturally come back up, encircling around him.

“i don’t know what to do,” his voice is muffled against your skin.

“it’s okay.”

“it’s not -”

“it’s fine.”

he’s quiet for a long time, simply breathing in your space. when you pull back he flinches, but he doesn’t run. the edges of his eyes are rimmed red, but when you lean back in he doesn’t turn away.

you give him a chaste kiss on the lips, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation.

when they open back up, he has a smile on his face again - not the one from earlier, but something more gentle and tender.

“chef riwoo -” he says, pulling back, “- is going to need a minute.”

“take all the time you need.”

#명재현 MYUNG JAEHYUN

jaehyun’s natural inclination to leadership is both a blessing and a curse, and jaehyun carries it with grace - and that’s the most terrifying part. he doesn’t look tired, he doesn’t crack under the pressure, he holds it together with an air of practice that scares you.

he’s good at it, being a leader. he’s so good at it he might be the best in the world - and since the world is so small right now, that phrase might actually be true.

jaehyun authority is embodied in his maps - the ones spread across the rickety table in one corner of the room. it’s littered with his handwriting, covered in symbols and dots only he can decipher and you try to understand. you sit with him while he thumbs at the edge, constantly reworking, rewriting, redrawing - trying to make sense of a world that is constantly shifting and is far too threatening.

he used to bury his head in his arms and sleep directly over the maps, almost like if he could splay out on the map he could control the world that lays under his fingertips. then you’d come over, place a hand on his back as he shuts his eyes, then, fifteen minutes later, he’d pull himself back together and sit up again.

“i’m glad you’re here,” he whispers one night, when everyone is asleep and your shadow casts your figure across his maps, “you’re the only one who understands me.”

you find his hands under the table and he brings them to his lips, kissing them like how a knight would to his grace. then he intertwines your fingers and turns back to his map, picking up his pen. romance blossoms under the dim light of a lamp that’s running out of time.

“you’re rerouting,” you point out quietly.

“i need you to be safe,” he squeezes your palm, “i - i…”

“i know,” you say softly, “it’s okay.”

he doesn’t look at you, his eyes still downcast as he draws an assertive line across the green.

“you need to drink,” you push the cup towards him.

“later.”

“now.”

he frowns at you but acquiesces, pulling the cup towards him. eventually it becomes half empty, and eventually jaehyun picks up his pen again.

you cup his cheeks and turn him towards you.

“tell me.”

“the east route -” he falters, “it’s… worst than i thought.”

“how bad?”

jaehyun stops, “i don’t know.”

you can tell by the scrunch in his nose that he hates himself for saying it. he’s supposed to be the one who always knows, the one who understands, the one who has a plan.

he not supposed to not know. he can’t afford to.

you run your thumb across his cheek and he leans into it, his eyes fluttering shut in the warmth.

“we’ll figure it out.”

“you don’t know that.”

“no,” you press your forehead against his, “but i know you will.”

jaehyun’s eyes blink open, and he shifts, ever so slightly, so his lips graze against the palm of your hand. he stays there for an exhale, then two, and three, and then he finds it in himself to pick up the pen again.

maknae line later

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