Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The forest is too loud. Or maybe it’s him who’s too loud.

Every creak, every gust of wind through the trees feels like it’s directed at Jisung personally, as if the earth itself is watching him blunder around and laughing about it.

Jisung moves carefully through the forest, deliberate and measured, like the ground might punish him for existing too loudly. He steps lightly, careful where he places his feet, but the underbrush betrays him anyway, snapping under his boots.

He winces. “Thanks,” he mutters to no one. “Really stealthy.”

He’s been following tracks for what feels like hours. It looks like it’s big by the depth of the prints. Maybe a deer, or a boar.  It doesn’t really matter as long as it’s something he can take back to camp.

The morning mist thickens, wrapping around the trees like a living thing, making it difficult to see any tracks. He crouches near a patch of disturbed soil, brushing his fingers over a print as he tries to figure out where it went.

“Come on,” he grumbles under his breath, “just one animal. That’s all I need.”

Jisung searches for more tracks for a while before releasing a resigned sigh; he knows it’s a lost cause. He’s just going to have to suck up his pride and go back to camp empty-handed.

He stands up, brushing the dirt off his hands as he looks around, trying to remember which way he came from.

The trees all look the same, every direction blending into the next, and he can’t recognise anything.

He curses under his breath, adjusting the strap of his pack. “Great. Just great. First time hunting and this happens.”

The hunting party was supposed to stick together, and if someone gets lost, they should stay where they are so someone can find them. At least that’s what Chan had said before they had been sent off from camp. Minho had made sure to repeat it to him before allowing him to leave.

“Don’t wander,” he’d warned, with that same infuriating clipped tone that always makes Jisung grit his teeth. Like he was a child who can’t tell up from down.

Jisung hates that he was right.

He should’ve never purposefully left the group, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

A bird flies from a nearby branch. Jisung jumps, nearly dropping his spear. His face heats up with embarrassment.

“Smooth, Jisung,” he mutters under his breath, “real hunter material.”

His fingers tighten their grip around his spear, the rough wood pressing against his palm. It’s the only thing keeping him grounded, stopping him from bolting in a random direction and getting himself even more lost.

Jisung shouldn’t be here. He knows that. Everyone knows that. Jisung isn’t the guy they send out to hunt; he’s the one they send to fetch water or gather herbs and berries - simple, safe things. The others don’t even bother to hide their scepticism. You’ll just scare the animals away, they tell him, like it’s a joke. Like it doesn’t sting every time.

He’s heard it all: you’re too loud. Too jumpy.

Minho especially loves to point out that he trips over his own feet, never mind roots coming out of the ground. Jisung can see what everyone’s not saying behind Minho’s smug smirk. They don’t say Jisung is useless, but they don’t have to.

So when one of the hunting parties was one person short, Jisung jumped at the opening before anyone else could. No hesitation. No second thought. Just that burning need to prove something. That he could do this. That he wasn’t a liability. That he mattered.

Now, standing alone in the deep stretch of forest where the sunlight barely filters through the canopy of trees, he feels the weight of that choice. He’s proven Minho right. Every snap of a twig has his heart slamming against his ribs, his breath too loud in his ears. He can already imagine everyone back at the camp, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, muttering, Of course he got lost.

“I just need to figure out which way is North,” Jisung mutters to himself, looking around as if that’ll help.

“Talking to yourself again?”

The voice comes from his right, smooth and too familiar.

Jisung jumps, spinning around with his spear raised, like that’ll do anything. His heart skips a beat for reasons that have nothing to do with danger. Jisung lets out a shaky breath and lowers his spear as he sees Minho standing between the trees. His dark hair damp with sweat, his blade hanging lazily at his side, and dirt smudged across his disgustingly sharp jaw. His expression is unreadable except for the faint curve of his lips. It’s like one of those old stories they used to tell on the Ark, Jisung must’ve thought of his name too many times, and then he just appeared.

Jisung grits his teeth. 

Minho steps out from between the trees, easy and composed, as if the forest itself makes room for him. He radiates confidence and control as he closes the distance between them, the kind that makes Jisung’s chest tighten in a way that’s equal parts irritation and something else he can’t name.

Even smeared with dirt and leaves, he looks put together, completely unbothered. Like someone who belongs here.

“What the hell, Minho?” Jisung hisses, loosening his grip on the spear, trying his best not to notice how close the other man is. “You trying to kill me?”

“If I wanted to, I wouldn’t have to try too hard,” Minho says simply, eyes sharp and assessing as they scan the trees behind him.

Jisung huffs and crosses his arms across his chest, “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“If I can sneak up on you, so can a Grounder. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill you. Or worse,” Minho replies, his eyes still scanning the forest with that maddening confidence that makes Jisung want to roll his eyes.

Jisung glares, forcing his bravado through the heat of embarrassment and… whatever this flutter in his stomach is. Maybe he should tell the foragers to be more careful with what they’re bringing back to camp.

“I was hunting.”

“You were supposed to stay with the group,” Minho raises his eyebrow, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “Instead, you got yourself lost.”

“I wasn’t lost,” Jisung mutters.

“Sure,” Minho says, amused. “That’s why you were saying you need to find North when you’re 20 minutes East of camp.”

Heat climbs Jisung’s neck. “I was… I was just trying to find North so I could figure out which way West was.”

“Uh-huh.”

Minho continues to look around, scanning the trees. Something about the way Minho moves makes it seem like he’s part of them. Jisung can’t help but watch the way his shoulders shift, the way his hand rests lightly on the hilt of his blade, ready for anything.

“You need to be more careful. You shouldn’t wander out here alone,” Minho says, glancing back at him. “Not out here.”

“I can handle myself,” Jisung says automatically, but it sounds smaller than he means it to.

The look Minho gives him isn’t mocking exactly, but still, it raises his hackles. “Come on. Let’s go before it gets dark.”

Minho turns to lead the way back to camp, and Jisung follows because what else can he do? The silence between them is thick, broken only by the crunch of leaves underfoot. Every so often, Minho glances over his shoulder, and Jisung pretends not to notice how his pulse jumps each time their eyes meet.

Jisung keeps glancing out at the trees surrounding them, half convinced that he’ll see a Grounder standing there, ready to attack. The shadows grow longer, darker, stretching like claws across the floor. The longer they walk, the stiller the forest becomes. It’s almost like the forest is holding its breath, just waiting for him to mess up again.

As he’s looking around, something brushes against his arm. He jerks with a startled yelp, only to look down to see a fat black beetle crawling up his sleeve.

“Oh my god,” He flails instinctively, shaking it off with a strangled noise that’s far too close to a squeak. The bug drops into the leaves, and Jisung’s breath comes fast, pulse still pounding as he stands there like an idiot.

Jisung exhales, tries to laugh at himself, but it comes out shaky. His pulse hasn’t quite settled when there’s a sound beside him. A soft chuckle.

Minho.

He’s smiling. Not the sharp, teasing smirk Jisung’s used to, but a real one. Bright and sudden, like warmth sneaking through the cracks — hesitant, almost shy. His eyes curve into soft crescents, bunny teeth showing, and Jisung’s breath catches before he can stop it.

It’s unfair. Nobody should look that good while laughing at you.

“What?” Minho asks when he catches Jisung staring, still grinning.

“Nothing,” Jisung mutters too quickly, looking away, heat creeping up his neck. “You’re an ass.”

“Maybe,” Minho says, easy and amused. “But at least I didn’t scream at a bug.”

“I didn’t scream—“

“You kind of did.”

“Shut up.”

“Are you finished being dramatic yet?” Minho says, one eyebrow raised, still smiling.

“I wasn’t being dramatic!”

Minho’s smile widens. “Right. I’m sure the bug was seriously threatening.”

Jisung opens his mouth, closes it again. “It was huge,” he mutters finally.

Minho laughs again, softer this time, and starts walking. “C’mon, bug. Let’s get moving again before something bigger than that beetle finds you.”

Jisung trails behind, his chest still tight, not from fear, but from the way Minho’s smile won’t leave his head. He tells himself it’s irritation, but the flutter in his stomach doesn’t feel like anger. Jisung grips his spear, trying not to stare at the way Minho’s shoulders move when he walks. He focuses on the ground instead, eyes scanning for roots, rocks, anything that could trip him. He’s determined not to embarrass himself again. 

It’s hard when all he can see is that smile. Bright and beautiful, burned behind his eyelids.

They’ve only been walking for a few minutes when Jisung notices something is off.

At first, he can’t name it. The air feels thicker, heavier somehow, the sunlight dimming through the canopy. Then he realises — it’s the sound. The forest’s constant hum of insects has thinned, fading into uneasy silence. Even the birds go quiet.

He stops. The quiet is absolute.

In front of him, Minho turns, brow furrowed. “Why’d you stop?”

“Do you hear that?” Jisung asks softly.

Minho pauses beside him, knife in hand. “What?”

“That’s just it,” Jisung says. “There’s nothing.”

No insects. No rustling leaves. Just stillness, thick and heavy, like the forest is holding its breath.

Then comes the sound — a sharp flutter overhead, followed by an explosion of wings. A flock of birds bursts from the trees, screeching in wild panic.

Minho looks up, his expression tightening. “That can’t be good.”

And then it comes: a distant, hollow horn echoing through the forest. One long note that seems to rattle the air itself. The sound sends a chill racing down Jisung’s spine.

Minho’s expression changes instantly. “Grounders,” he mutters. “They’re warning each other.”

“About what?”

He doesn’t answer, just grabs Jisung’s wrist, pulling him forward. “We need to run.”

The words barely leave his mouth before Jisung smells it: something chemical, sharp, and wrong. The air ahead starts to shimmer, a faint greenish haze drifting between the trees. A slow hiss follows, soft at first, then louder.

“Is that—”

“Acid fog,” Minho snaps. “Move!”

Branches whip past them, clawing at their sleeves. The ground is uneven, slick with moss, and the air feels wrong, sour at the back of Jisung’s throat. The hiss starts behind them. Soft at first, then growing, an eerie, hungry sound that fills the forest. His lungs burn as he runs, the spear heavy in his hand, his legs screaming. Branches whip across his face. The forest is a blur of dark and light and panic.

“Don’t stop!” Minho yells, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Jisung can hear it now. The sound of the fog eating through the forest, a corrosive whisper that sizzles when it touches bark. He risks a glance over his shoulder and sees it rolling toward them, thick and green, swallowing everything in its path. His stomach drops.

The hiss grows louder. The smell, chemical and burning, fills his lungs. His legs shake, the trees blur together. He trips once, catches himself, keeps running. His heart is a hammer in his chest.

“Where are we going?” Jisung gasps, lungs on fire.

“High ground!” Minho shouts. “Or underground, if we’re lucky.”

Jisung’s foot catches on something half-buried in the earth. He stumbles and falls, crashing into the mud.

Pain flashes through his knee, his shoulder. He groans, pushes himself up and freezes.

Beneath his palm, half-hidden by dirt and moss, is the cold edge of metal.

“What the hell—”

He digs into the earth, clearing dirt away with one hand, revealing a square of corroded steel half-buried in the dirt. A handle jutted from it.  An old, rusted hatch. It must be an underground bunker from before the bombs.

“Jisung!” Minho’s voice, sharp, urgent.

“Minho!” he shouts. “There’s a hatch—”

Minho scrambles forward, fingers clawing at the dirt, scraping the edges clean. Jisung fumbles for the handle, hands slick with sweat, trembling too hard to get a grip. Minho pushes him aside, grabs the metal himself, and pulls.

The hatch groans, ancient and stiff, refusing to move.

“Come on, come on—” Minho grits out, teeth bared. He pulls again, harder this time. It resists, creaking with age, but then it gives, releasing a gust of stale air.

“Go!” Minho yelled.

Jisung looks up and sees the fog rolling toward them like a living wall of pale green. His mind goes blank. He can’t move. He’s frozen, watching death crawl closer. His heart beats so fast it hurts, but his limbs won’t respond.

“Jisung!”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Jisung, but his hand grazes the edge of the creeping fog. Jisung watches in terror as Minho jerks, a hiss filling the air, different this time. Sharp. Painful. Minho swears, teeth clenched, but he doesn’t let go. He just keeps shoving Jisung forward, forcing him down through the opening. 

Jisung lands hard on the cold metal below. He looks up in time to see Minho lowering himself down one-handed, his other arm clutched tight to his chest. The fog is right there, curling around the edge of the open hatch, reaching for him like living smoke.

Jisung lunges up, grabs Minho’s uninjured arm, and together they slam the door shut. The metal clangs shut with a ringing finality just as the fog rolls over it.

Then silence.

The only sound is their ragged, uneven breathing.

“Minho,” Jisung chokes out, his voice trembling as he crawls toward him.“Are you okay? Your hand?”

“I’m fine.” His tone is sharp but weak.

“You’re not fine!” Jisung scrambles closer, reaching out before hesitating, unsure if he should touch. It’s too dark to see the damage done. “You should have—”

“I wasn’t going to leave you,” Minho says simply. His voice is calm, but through the darkness, Jisung can see his hand tremble slightly.

The words land heavily in the silence between them. Jisung stares, throat tight. There’s something raw in Minho’s voice, something that has nothing to do with the burn.

“Stay here,” Jisung says quietly, even though Minho’s in no shape to argue. “I’ll…I’ll find something to light this place up so I can properly check on your hand.”

Jisung can just make out the shape of Minho, nodding his head as he cradles his hand protectively against his chest.

Jisung pushes himself to his feet, forcing his shaking legs to cooperate. He blinks as his eyes finally adjust to the dark. He can just make out the vague shapes of shelves lining the wall closest to him — boxes, old tins, jars stacked neatly. All untouched. 

Jisung swallows, heart thumping in his chest. “They actually stocked this,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Before the bombs… They prepared all this, and they didn’t even make it.”

Minho glances at him. “Lucky for us,” he mutters, a faint edge of awe in his voice.

After searching the supplies in front of him and not finding what he was looking for, Jisung places one hand on the wall, dragging it along to feel his way around.

The bunker is bigger than he expected. A corridor opens out to a wide living area with a bed tucked away in the corner. He looks around the room as much as he can with his limited vision.

It’s only when he bumps into it that Jisung realises that there is a crate in the corner of the small room he is in. He pries it open, coughing as dust explodes into the air. Inside, rolled up blankets take up most of the space. It’s as he’s about to go search somewhere else, he sees it. A tin box near the bottom of the crate, the writing faded, but as he opens it, he’s relieved to find boxes of matches inside.

“Bingo,” he whispers. He grabs them, striking one against the rough strip on the side of the box. The spark catches. A brief flare of light bursts through the dark, small and fragile. 

He uses the small light to sweep the room, eyes widening as the dim flicker reveals more than he expected. Candles, stacked neatly on a low shelf, catch his attention next. He grabs a few, careful not to drop them, and sets them along the counter and edges of the floor, spacing them so the light reaches every corner. The shadows retreat just enough for him to see the far wall, the crates, and the bed tucked in the corner.

The candlelight flickers in the darkness, casting tall, wavering shadows along the walls. For a moment, the bunker doesn’t feel so oppressive and claustrophobic, but more like a safe haven.

He pauses for a moment, watching the warm glow stretch across the cold metal walls, a fragile bubble of safety in the bunker. Then he remembers Minho, glancing toward the shadowed figure leaning against the wall, still cradling his injured hand. 

“Stay put, I’m going to look for a first aid kit now,” he says, more firmly this time, even though he knows Minho won’t argue. The soft nod he catches in the flickering light is enough. 

Jisung moves carefully through the bunker, letting the candlelight guide him. His fingers brush along the walls, tracing the contours of shelves and crates, feeling for anything that might hold the supplies he needs. Every step is cautious; the shadows seem to shift with each flicker of flame, making the space feel larger and smaller at the same time.

He finds a set of metal cabinets along the far wall and kneels, brushing dust from the top drawer. It opens with a creak, revealing stacks of old tools, cans of food, and a few miscellaneous items. Nothing helpful. He curses under his breath and pushes to the next drawer, then another, dragging his hand across every surface, teeth clenched in frustration.

Finally, near the back corner, half-hidden under a pile of faded cloths, he finds it: a small metal box labelled FIRST AID in peeling letters. Relief hits him in a rush. He pulls it out, careful not to drop it, and flips the lid open. Inside there’s a roll of gauze, a tin of burn ointment, and a handful of antiseptic wipes still sealed in their packets.

Jisung rushes over to Minho, kneeling between the other man’s knees. He pulls all the needed equipment out of the first aid kit carefully, placing everything on the floor in a neat line in front of Minho, the small ritual grounding him, giving him control where there had been panic. 

“Okay,” Jisung whispers, trying to steady his voice, though it trembles anyway. He lights a candle and adjusts it so the soft flicker washes over Minho’s hand. 

Even with Minho holding the hand to his chest, Jisung can still see that skin across the back of Minho’s hand is red and glistening wet in the low light. 

The shadows exaggerate every crease in Minho’s fingers, every fleck of dirt and sweat across his sharp jaw. Jisung notices the subtle tremor, the tiny flex of muscles that Minho is clearly fighting not to show. Something too heavy to name twists in his chest, a mix of gratitude and guilt.

Minho swallows, jaw tight, flexing his fingers lightly despite the sharp sting of the burn. “Next time,” he murmurs, voice low, dry, but threaded with that same teasing edge that drives Jisung insane, “try not to freeze when something’s about to kill you.”

“Idiot,” Jisung huffs out, half laugh, half sob. “Next time, try not to burn yourself saving me.”

Minho laughs. It's a breathless and pained sound, but his eyes, still bright and alive, catch Jisung’s in the dim candlelight. The smile flickers, small and real, like sunlight breaking through clouds. Jisung feels that same twist in his chest again: warmth, something dangerous and unfamiliar, that makes his pulse stutter.

“Maybe I am an idiot,” Minho murmurs, leaning back against the wall, jaw tight as he takes shallow, deliberate breaths, trying to hide just how much it hurts. “But at least you’re alive.”

“Let me see,” Jisung says quietly, reaching for Minho’s burned hand.

Minho hesitates, jaw tense, but eventually holds it out. The skin is red, angry. The edges of the burn with a faint sheen from where the fog had brushed him. It’s not as bad as it Jisung feared, but it’s raw, blistering in places, and he feels something twist painfully in his chest.

Jisung swallows. He’s read about burns before; he spent more time than he’s willing to admit hiding himself away with any kind of book he could get his hands on back on the Ark. He remembers the steps. He can do this.

“Okay,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “First things first — rinse.”

He grabs and searches his backpack, praying that he had remembered to pack the mental canteen he had made out of scrap metal. He breathes out a shaky sigh of relief when his hand lands on it.

“This might hurt,” Jisung says, glancing up at Minho.

“It already hurts,” Minho grimaces at him.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, and Minho does. The quiet trust makes Jisung’s chest tighten.

Jisung uncaps the water and gently tips it over Minho’s hand, letting a slow stream wash away any lingering traces of acid left behind by the fog. Minho hisses through his teeth, shoulders tensing.

“It has to be flushed out,” he says, more to distract Minho from the pain than anything. “You can’t leave it on the skin, it’ll just keep burning.”

“You sound like you know what you’re doing,” Minho says faintly.

“I like to read,” Jisung mutters, flushing slightly. He rinses again, careful not to touch the damaged skin directly, just letting the water run over it. Once he’s certain that it’s clean, Jisung sets the canteen aside and wipes his own damp hands on his pants. He dries Minho’s hand with a clean scrap of cloth, patting it carefully to avoid the blisters. 

He works methodically, reaching for one of the antiseptic wipes and tearing one open with his teeth before wiping around the edges of the burn — not on it, because that would hurt like hell, but close enough to clean the surrounding skin. His hands shake a little, but his movements stay gentle, deliberate.

A strand of hair falls into his eyes, tickling his lashes and nose, sticking slightly to the sweat on his forehead. He blinks, shaking his head back and forth to try to brush it away, but it refuses to budge. 

“Ugh, come on,” he mutters under his breath, exasperated. He decides to try his best to just ignore it and focus on the task at hand. 

Minho’s eyes flick up to him for a brief second before softly chuckling. Before Jisung can try to crack a joke about needing a haircut, Minho speaks.

“Hold still.”

With his uninjured hand, he reaches out and gently brushes the hair back, tucking it behind Jisung’s ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Heat blooms across Jisung’s cheeks, hot and insistent as fingers brush over his cheek. The touch only lingers for a moment, but his pulse jumps, and a shiver goes down his spine.

Jisung raises his gaze to look at Minho. The glow of the candlelight dances across Minho’s face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair falls over his forehead in a careless sweep. Jisung feels his chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with his earlier panic.

“T-thanks,” Jisung mutters, voice small and a little breathless, as he forces his gaze away from Minho’s face. He swallows and places his attention back on Minho’s hand.

Minho just hums in reply. 

Jisung swallows, trying to ignore the flutter in his stomach that rises every time Minho’s eyes flick to his hands, the way his dark hair falls slightly over his forehead in the dim light, the curve of his lips as he tightens his jaw around the edge of a grim smile. 

He reaches for the tin of burn ointment. Jisung twists the lid open, scooping out a little with two fingers. The ointment is pale, almost pearlescent, as he spreads a thin layer carefully across Minho’s hand, working slowly, feather-light. 

Minho flinches at first, then relaxes, leaning back slightly. “Careful,” he mutters, voice low, almost teasing, though there’s a sharp edge of pain behind it.

“I am being careful,” Jisung says, almost snapping, though the words come out softer than intended.

“You are,” Minho agrees, voice quiet. “You’re doing good.”

The word lands like a heartbeat between them. 

Jisung’s breath catches. His fingers falter for half a second before he forces them steady again, smearing a thin layer of salve over the last patch of red. Jisung’s throat feels tight. The word echoes in his head like a drumbeat, warm and dizzying. Good. He wants to hear it again, wants to earn it again, and that thought makes his heart trip over itself.

He wraps the gauze around Minho’s hand next, remembering what it said in the book — loose enough not to restrict circulation, tight enough to protect the wound. His fingers brush Minho’s wrist as he ties the bandage off, and Minho’s pulse beats steady and strong beneath his skin.

He doesn’t dare look up. If he does, he’ll give himself away. Because that word, good, keeps echoing in his head, unspooling warmth through his chest.

Minho’s eyes stay fixed on Jisung’s face instead of his own hand. The warmth of that gaze prickles against Jisung’s skin, almost more distracting than the wound itself.

He clears his throat, sitting back on his heels, trying to ignore how hot his face feels. “You should be fine,” he says, voice just a little too quiet. “As long as we keep it clean.”

Minho flexes his hand slightly, testing the bandage, then smiles, small, tired, and unfairly pretty in the flickering light.

Jisung looks down to inspect his work, clean and neat, and the warmth spreading through him has nothing to do with the candles or the safety of the bunker. It’s from Minho’s voice still echoing in his head, quiet and devastatingly gentle.

Good.

It’s only then that he realises Minho’s hand is still cradled in his lap. Jisung forces himself to pull back, his fingers reluctant to let go.

The adrenaline has finally started to fade, leaving behind the dull ache of exhaustion in his bones. He looks down at his own hands, trembling. He clenches his hands into fists and looks up at Minho.

Minho is leaning back against the wall, the faint sheen of sweat across his temple catching the light. His bandaged hand now rests on his knee, the other dangling loosely by his side. He looks calm, as always. The world could be crumbling down around him, and he’d still manage that same composed half-smirk.

Jisung hates that about him sometimes. He envies it too.

Jisung moves to sit cross-legged next to Minho, his back pressed against the cold wall. The first aid kit lies open in front of them, gauze and antiseptic wipes scattered across the floor like evidence of his panic that he tried so hard to hide. His heartbeat is still too fast, though it has less to do with panic now and more to do with the way Minho’s shoulder brushes against his every so often. The small motion is somehow both grounding and distracting all at once.

After a long moment, Jisung clears his throat. His voice comes out small.

“How long do you think it’ll last?”

Minho blinks, glancing over. “The fog?”

Jisung nods. “Yeah. I mean… it has to go away eventually, right?”

Minho’s expression softens slightly. He glances towards the sealed hatch; the faint hiss they heard outside has dulled to something quieter, but still present. “Hard to say,” he says after a moment. “Could be an hour or two. Could be all night.”

Jisung’s stomach sinks. “All night,” he repeats quietly. “So we’re just stuck here.”

“Seems that way.”

“I hate not knowing,” he admits softly.

“Welcome to the ground,” Minho says, his voice a quiet murmur edged with something like humour. “Everything down here’s trying to kill us, but hey, at least it’s creative with it.”

Jisung lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s not very comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” Minho says, but he leans closer towards Jisung, his shoulder pressing firmly against the younger’s like he’s trying to remind him he’s not alone.

Jisung purses his lips, trying to hide a smile threatening to show, and glances down at his hands. They’re still. His eyes then dart towards Minho’s, the stark white of the bandage, the way his fingers twitch every now and then.

He wants to ask if it still hurts. He wants to say thank you. He wants to say a lot of things, but his tongue feels heavy. Useless.

Minho shifts, the soft scrape of fabric against the floor pulling Jisung’s gaze back to his face. The flicker of candlelight catches Minho’s expression, composed as always. But Jisung can see the exhaustion hidden beneath it, in the way his shoulders are slightly slumped and the restless way he’s moving his legs every few minutes. He looks softer, younger here. He’s always so calm and confident, it’s sometimes difficult to remember he’s only 20. 

“You did good,” Minho says suddenly, his voice quiet but certain. “You kept it together better than I thought you would.”

Jisung blinks, caught off guard. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” Minho’s tone is simple. Not kind, or teasing, just honest. That somehow makes it worse. “You found the first aid and helped take care of my hand. I wouldn’t have even known what to do.”

Jisung forces out a laugh, but it’s thin, quiet. “You wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all if I hadn’t frozen like an idiot.”

Minho exhales slowly, his eyes flicking toward Jisung. “You weren’t an idiot,” he says, calm and matter-of-fact. “You were scared. Everyone freezes sometimes.”

“You didn’t.”

Minho shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not an idiot, Jisung. You just… think too much.”

Jisung lets out a quiet scoff, rubbing his palms against his knees. “That’s one way to put it.” His voice is soft, tired. “Overthinking’s kind of the only thing I am good at.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Minho murmurs, eyes flicking toward him. “You handled the burn better than anyone back at camp would’ve. Guess all that reading paid off.”

Jisung snorts, ducking his head to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “You really don’t have to keep complimenting me. I’m starting to think you hit your head, too.”

Minho hums, amused. “Maybe I did.”

Minho then shifts again, resting his head back against the wall with a quiet sigh.

Jisung studies him through the flickering light. The relaxed line of his mouth, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. He looks calm. But Jisung can see the tension under the surface, the subtle twitch in his jaw each time his burned hand throbs.

Jisung swallows, trying to keep his voice steady. “Do you think they’re okay?”

The question comes out before he can stop it, fragile and too small for the space it fills.

Minho doesn’t open his eyes. “Who?”

“Everyone back at camp.” Jisung’s voice drops lower. “Hyunjin, Felix, Chan… all of them.”

That gets Minho’s attention. His eyes open, glancing sideways toward Jisung. He doesn’t answer right away. He drags his good hand over his face, exhaling slowly, like he’s weighing what to tell him. “They’ve dealt with worse,” he says after a pause. “Chan knows what to do.”

Jisung nods, even though that’s not the same as knowing. His thumb rubs nervously along the seam of his pants, an anxious tic that he can’t quite stop. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. It’s just—”

“Just?”

Jisung bites his lip, picking at the frayed edge of his sleeve.. “I don’t know. It’s different when you can’t see them, you know? I just keep thinking, what if the fog reached the camp before they got the dropship doors closed? What if someone didn’t make it? What if they were too far out?”

Minho’s eyes flick toward him. “They will be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Minho says, voice even, “but worrying won’t change anything.”

Jisung nods, but his brows knit together. “I just — Hyunjin was supposed to be on patrol when it started. I hope he made it inside in time.”

Something flickers across Minho’s face, so quick Jisung almost misses it. His jaw tightens, just slightly, and his eyes dart away. 

“He’s fast,” Minho says, a little too casually. “He probably tripped over his own feet on the way, but he’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Jisung says quickly. “He’s smart, he’d look for cover if he’s too far away. But he’s also—”

“Reckless,” Minho finishes flatly.

Jisung gives a small, humourless laugh. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

“He likes to play hero,” Minho mutters, eyes on the candle’s flame instead of Jisung. His jaw works, a faint muscle twitching there. “One day, that’s going to get him killed.”

There’s something in his tone that makes Jisung glance over, something sharp, buried under the calm. He studies Minho’s profile in the dim light: the tight line of his mouth, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his knee.

“You sound like you don’t like him much,” Jisung says quietly, testing the words.

Minho’s mouth quirks, but it’s not a smile. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t reply right away. When he finally does, his voice is low, almost a rumble. “I just don’t like people who take stupid risks."

“That’s rich coming from you,” Jisung says, unable to hold back a small laugh. “You literally burned your hand saving me.”

That earns him a look, sharp, but softened by the corner of Minho’s mouth twitching up. “Touché. But that was different.”

“How?”

Minho looks at him then, really looks at him, and Jisung feels that familiar pull in his chest.

 “You were there,” he says simply, like that explains everything, before turning his gaze to his hand.

Jisung catches the faintest hint of pink at the tips of his ears. The sight makes warmth bloom low in his chest, surprising and impossible to ignore.

Minho clears his throat, clearly ready to change the subject. “They’ll be fine,” he says again, quieter this time. “Felix’ll keep them calm. Chan won’t let anyone do anything stupid.”

Jisung hums in agreement, though his voice is still faint. “I just… don’t like being away from them. Feels wrong.”

Minho turns his head slightly toward him. “Then stop thinking about it for a while.” 

Jisung lets out a small, humourless laugh. “Easier said than done.” 

“Then let me help.” 

Jisung glances at him, puzzled. “How are you going to do that?” 

Minho doesn’t answer right away,  just leans a little closer, the warmth of his shoulder brushing against Jisung’s again, steady and deliberate this time. “Just… don’t think.”

The space between them feels smaller than it should. Jisung swears he can hear his own heartbeat echoing off the bunker walls, too loud and uneven. Minho doesn’t move away. His shoulder stays pressed against Jisung’s, solid and warm, his voice a low hum that vibrates through the air between them.

“Not about them,” Minho murmurs and when Jisung glances up, Minho’s gaze is already on him. Steady. Focused.

It steals the air from Jisung’s lungs.

The candlelight catches in Minho’s eyes, deep, dark, flecked gold at the edges. His face is close enough that Jisung can see the faint smudge of dirt along his jaw, the way his lips part slightly as he breathes. His brain short-circuits, just for a second, imagining what would happen if he leaned forward half an inch.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not here. Not now.

But the thought lodges in his throat and refuses to leave. His pulse trips over itself, fluttering high in his chest as Minho’s gaze flicks down, just for a moment, to his mouth.

Jisung swallows hard. His pulse thrums in his throat, impossible to ignore. The flickering candlelight makes Minho’s face hard to read; all shadow and warmth, the sharp lines of his jaw softened by gold.

“I don’t know if I can just — just stop thinking,” Jisung says finally, his voice unsteady.

Minho turns his head then, just enough that Jisung can feel his breath ghost against his cheek. “Try.”

The word is barely a whisper, but it lands with weight. Jisung’s chest tightens, and he finds himself looking anywhere but at Minho. At the flickering flame, at the cracked concrete wall, at the faint scuff marks near the hatch. Anywhere that isn’t those dark eyes.

He can’t tell if it’s the heat from the candle or something else making his face burn. “You’re… you’re kind of bossy, you know that?”

Minho hums, amused. “And yet, you listen.”

“I do not,” Jisung protests, too quickly.

“Sure you don’t,” Minho murmurs, the corner of his mouth curving. “You’re doing it right now.”

Jisung opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again, because — well, he isn’t thinking about camp.

Minho’s smirk deepens, just barely visible in the light. “See?”

“Shut up,” Jisung mutters, voice small, but there’s no real heat behind it. He tries to sound annoyed, but it’s hard when his heart feels like it’s tripping over itself.

Minho doesn’t push the moment. He just stays there, so close Jisung can feel the warmth radiating from him, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with his own.

Jisung’s gaze flickers back, drawn in against his better judgment. Minho’s eyes catch the light, half-shadowed, gold flickering in the dark. It feels impossible to look away.

Minho tilts his head slightly, studying him like he’s trying to read something unspoken. The distance between them is barely a breath now.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jisung whispers, more to himself than anything.

Minho’s lips curve, soft, unreadable. “Like what?”

“Like…” Jisung trails off. He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Like he’s the only thing that matters? Like Minho sees right through him?

Jisung blinks, heart hammering, heat blooming across his chest. The word lingers in the air between them, thick and impossible to ignore. He wants to speak, to say something clever, something safe, but nothing comes out.

Minho leans just a fraction closer, the warmth of his shoulder pressing against Jisung’s, anchoring him. His dark eyes never leave Jisung’s, steady and sharp, but something softer flickers there too, a quiet insistence that makes Jisung’s stomach flip.

Jisung shifts where he sits, leaning just slightly closer without meaning to, the movement almost imperceptible. Minho doesn’t pull away. His gaze darkens, fixed on Jisung’s face with an intensity that makes Jisung’s pulse skip, clumsy and uneven.

“If you can’t empty your head, then I’ll have to give you something better to think about,” Minho murmurs, voice low and warm, soft at the edges in a way Jisung’s never heard before. Gentle, almost coaxing. 

Jisung swallows, throat suddenly dry. “What do you mean?” His words come out rough, hoarse, as if the air itself is betraying him.

Minho’s lips part slightly, breath ghosting over Jisung’s cheek. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, a hand lifts, deliberate and slow, until a single fingertip brushes the curve of Jisung’s wrist, right where the sleeve has slipped up. The contact is tiny, but it sends a hot jolt racing up Jisung’s arm, sharp and sudden.

“Me,” Minho says, simple, certain, and Jisung swears the world narrows down to just that one word, echoing between them in the flickering candlelight.

“You… what do you mean?” Jisung whispers, almost not daring to speak.

Minho’s lips curve, a faint, knowing smile that sends heat curling down Jisung’s spine. “Do I need to repeat it?”

Jisung swallows, breath catching. His hands, still trembling from adrenaline and nerves, curl into his lap. “No… I—” He stops, too aware of the closeness, the way the flickering candlelight plays across Minho’s face, highlighting the sweep of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips.

Minho tilts his head slightly, brushing a stray strand of Jisung’s hair behind his ear with the hand that isn’t bandaged. The touch lingers for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and Jisung feels his chest tighten.

“Good,” Minho murmurs, voice low, teasing in the gentlest way. Just that single word, but it lands like fire in Jisung’s veins.

He can’t stop the faint shiver that runs through him. Good… he repeats silently in his mind, savouring it, letting it echo over and over.

Jisung’s breath stutters in his chest, caught somewhere between a sigh and a sound he can’t name. The air feels too thick now, charged, as if even the smallest movement could tip the world off balance. He doesn’t dare blink.

Minho’s hand drops, slow, deliberate, tracing the line of Jisung’s sleeve as if memorising the shape of it. His fingers stop just before the cuff, resting there, but the weight of it feels like gravity itself.

“See?” Minho says quietly, almost a whisper. “You’re not thinking about anything else now, are you?”

Jisung lets out a shaky laugh, too thin, too breathless to sound like himself.

“You’re—” He starts, but the word fractures on his tongue. He doesn’t even know what he means to say. Dangerous? Unfair? Beautiful? “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Minho hums, eyes half-lidded as he glances sideways. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says, and Jisung can hear the smile in his voice before he sees it.

Jisung’s pulse drums in his ears, and every inch of him feels attuned to the distance, the not-quite-touch that sits like a promise.

He doesn’t remember deciding to move, but then he’s leaning in, just a fraction, close enough that their breaths tangle. Minho doesn’t pull away. 

“Then… what am I supposed to do with that?” Jisung whispers, voice trembling like something fragile.

Minho tilts his head, gaze flicking down to Jisung’s lips and back up again. “Whatever you want,” he says softly. It’s almost cruel the way he says it, like he knows exactly how much Jisung wants, and how impossible that wanting feels.

Jisung exhales, a quiet, helpless sound. The candle between them flickers, and for a moment, the world seems to hold its breath with him.

Minho’s hand lifts again, hovering by Jisung’s jaw but never quite closing the space. “You’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, voice low, something tender hiding in the teasing.

And Jisung thinks, maybe he already has.