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Some days, Yeosang wakes up, goes about his day, relaxes for the evening, then goes to bed. These days are happening more frequently now. He’s glad to have the reprieve from his previous ratio of good to bad days.
That was a difficult time to live through.
And some days, he goes right back to that time.
Instead of the warm, soft caress of his favorite fluffy blanket in bed, he feels the frosty bite of steel along his back in the interrogation chamber. The sound of wolves howling outside. The feel of whipping wind against his cheeks.
He’s right back there. Back where he started. Sometimes, he wonders if it’s where he really belongs.
Where else could he belong? Could he really belong here amongst similarly afflicted individuals learning how to crochet? Singing carols about the upcoming holiday? Drinking mulled wine that tries its hardest to warm his frozen chest from within?
“You’re more than what you once were, Yeosang.”
His sponsor, Song Mingi, has been with him every step of the way. In more ways than any one person in this facility could ever really understand. They practically walked the same path. Felt the same torture. Tasted the same blood on their tongues in combat.
The horror. Mingi knows the horror. Sometimes, Yeosang holds him as he shakes and shakes and can’t find his way back home. In turn, Mingi does the same for Yeosang.
There was never a time when either of them were children. There was never a time when they weren’t training, aiming, or taking cover from an assault.
“We’re here now, though, Yeosang.”
Mingi’s voice is softer than when they first met on that god-forsaken mission that nearly killed them both. Yeosang clings to that voice during his hardest moments like it’s sent from the heavens. God’s one and only gift to Yeosang.
It’s about damn time, too. Yeosang wondered when the old chump in the sky would give him a break.
“You’ve barely touched your eggs,” Mingi says with a little more force than he probably intends. From the dent in his brow and the hard set of his mouth, Yeosang has a feeling he’s been trying to speak to him for much longer than just that one sentence.
It works like a windshield wiper on the bug-splattered mess of Yeosang’s mind, forcing him to respond quietly, “Your eggs taste like chalk and half a bottle of Tabasco.”
It’s not quite a joke, but Mingi cracks a smile all the same. Smiles come a little easier for both of them now. When they first met, Yeosang could count the number of smiles he saw on Mingi’s face with one hand.
Who really has time to smile when you’re just trying to stay alive?
“Can you tell me where we are today?”
Yeosang sighs, exhausted despite the early hour. “Home Of Rest. Building three. Room 100.”
“And–”
Yeosang cuts Mingi off with another annoyed groan, “My name is Kang Yeosang. I am twenty-four years old. You are Song Mingi. We’re eating breakfast. It’s Christmas Eve.”
The words are sharp-edged, each one cutting deep like a high-frequency blade or something worse.
“Good,” Mingi replies softly, his eyes trained on the table between them. He could use a shave. That’s what their Mentors would tell them, but Yeosang knows that Mingi knows that Yeosang likes it when Mingi gets a little scruffy. After a minute of shoveling a few bites of egg into his mouth, Mingi finally looks up at Yeosang and repeats, “Good.”
For some reason, this allows Yeosang to exhale. He tries his own smile, knowing it doesn’t fit on his face nearly as well as the mirrored smile on Mingi’s.
“Snake.”
Yeosang rarely addresses Mingi this way, but sometimes, it slips.
Its unexpectedness shows in the way that Mingi’s fork slips from his grasp, clanging against the tin of his plate.
“My name is Song Mingi. It’s Christmas Eve. I’m sitting across the table from Kang Yeosang,” his Sponsor takes a deep, calming breath before continuing, “We’re having breakfast. Yeosang’s eyes look pretty today. Bluer than usual. The scar that runs along his collarbone looks pretty, too. Probably because it’s on his collarbone.”
Heat rises in Yeosang’s cheeks. It almost reaches the cold center of his chest.
But not quite.
“Good enough,” he replies, eyes staying firmly glued to the half-eaten plate of eggs in front of him.
There is the sound of movement across the table. Yeosang, actively avoiding Mingi’s eyes, gasps in surprise when he suddenly feels a pair of strong arms wrap around his neck from behind, a pair of lips grazing the shell of his ear.
“I can do better, actually.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Mingi stands up and pulls his arms back until his fingers are tangled in the stiff cords of muscle that line Yeosang’s bare shoulders. When he woke up this morning, he had foregone a shirt, body slick with cold sweat from one nightmare or another.
“Yeosang’s hair is the loveliest silver. His skin is hot to the touch. His ears are cute when they’re pink like this.”
Hot lips clamp onto the tip of one of Yeosang’s heated ears. He swallows hard and grips his fork a little too tightly.
“Today’s going to be a good day. You know how I know?”
The holidays are never a good time. Yeosang is used to it at this point. How could the holidays be good? What’s good about a reminder of everything you’ve lost? Of all the people that you’ve never even had in your life.
No parents. No siblings. No friends. Just comrades. Just leaders. Just…
“My name is Song Mingi. Your name is Kang Yeosang. We don’t have much, but we have each other,” Mingi pauses to kneel beside Yeosang, his fingers weaving their way from his clenched shoulder to the line of his neck. They finally fall on his jaw to force their eyes to meet. Mingi’s eyes are clear, dark, and beautiful. “We have one mission left. This mission is the hardest one yet. Enjoy the food we can easily obtain. Feel the heat of the fireplace on our skin when we’re cold. Relish in each other’s continued presence here.”
Yeosang blinks over and over. His heart thuds against his chest, speeding up with every spoken word.
Mingi leans forward to press his lips against the one tear that had somehow managed to twist down the swell of Yeosang’s flushed cheek. When he leans back, his lips are glossy and parted. The heat is begging to break through the dam of ice blocking Yeosang's lungs and heart.
The sound of his own voice nearly startles him just as much as it surprises Mingi, “We’re safe now. We’re warm. I’m here with you. These eggs are gross, but they’re better than rations.”
The corner of Mingi’s lips curls up. His smile sometimes looks more like a sad grimace than a smile, but Yeosang can’t say he doesn’t like it. He likes just about everything about Mingi.
Yeosang lets his eyes slide shut. When they’re fully closed, he sees stars and darkness behind his eyelids. Nothing else. Nothing sinister. He’s safe and warm. Mingi is here. Yeosang is here. It’s just them.
Warm lips slot seamlessly against his own. The heat of such a simple action finally tears the wall down. He can feel the ice cracking, shimmering and splintering and exploding into fractals of light. A shaky exhale slips from him. Mingi pushes forward. He licks along the seam of Yeosang’s mouth gently, slowly. Calloused hands frame Yeosang’s face. Roughened fingers from years of–
That same probing tongue pushes deeper, breaking Yeosang’s encroaching thoughts easily. He lets it. He lets the heat spread from that point of contact all the way out to each and every inch of his body.
He’s warm now.
He’s safe, and he’s warm.