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Chapter Text

Everything hurts. 

Wooyoung groans as he slowly regains consciousness, blinking to get his eyes to focus. He’s sitting upright with his back pressed against one of the unforgiving bulkheads and he can feel warm blood trickling down the side of his face—probably from hitting his head against either the floor or the aforementioned bulkhead. It’s too dark to see more than a few centimeters in front of him, which means that emergency power hasn’t kicked in yet, but when he shifts to stand he realizes that something is pinning his leg in place. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reaching out with fumbling fingers. It’s a piece of metal, he determines, that’s pierced through his pant leg, scraping across his skin, and embedded itself into the floor. 

How hard did they crash? 

He slumps back against the bulkhead and closes his eyes again, listening for other signs of life. He hears a faint moan somewhere to his left and then their captain’s voice echoes through the ship, sounding strained beneath its usual imperiousness. 

“Okay, who’s not dead? Sound off.” 

“Me,” he calls, waving a useless hand. 

“Me,” San says—the source of the moaning to his left. 

“Me,” Mingi says from the direction of the cockpit, sounding mostly stable. 

“Me,” Seonghwa hisses, also from the cockpit because, right, he took over co-piloting duties from San a few hours ago. 

“Me,” Yunho says, and his voice has a layer of deadly calm that he only uses when he’s injured or in trouble somehow and doesn’t want them to know about it. 

“Me,” Jongho says, followed by a groan that’s probably him getting to his feet. “I’ll get the backup power.” 

His footsteps stagger away. No other voices follow, and terror seizes sudden and tight at Wooyoung’s throat. 

“Yeosang?” He calls, leaning forward again to pull at his stupid, trapped pant leg. “Yeosang?”

No answer. The others are trying to move, too—he can hear the creak of the pilot chairs and San kicking something loud and metallic. Finally, he manages to tear the fabric of his pants free from the metal and pull himself up using the bulkhead. His head spins for a second, but both of his legs support his weight. 

A hand lands on his shoulder, startling him. Fingers curl into his shirt, pressing slender and sharp to the skin underneath. “Wooyoung?” 

Ah. Hongjoong. 

“Hey, captain,” Wooyoung says and feels Hongjoong’s arm slide across his back, supporting him. 

“You in one piece?” Hongjoong asks and Wooyoung can just see the outline of his head turning in the inky black of the cabin, trying to find the rest of his crew. 

“More or less,” Wooyoung says, ignoring the persistent throbbing behind his temple and left eye. He tries to scan their surroundings too, looking for any sign of Yeosang. 

Where was he when they went down? The Guardian ship, the crackle of their shields breaking, the blare of sirens, the chaotic whirl of stars and atmosphere and earth, Mingi’s voice shouting at them to hold onto something— everything’s a blur. 

“Found him!” San’s voice yells just as a hum runs through the ship and the lanterns flare to life. 

Wooyoung’s breath catches at the sight of San kneeling near the back of the main cabin, on the other side of the navigation table, and Yeosang lying still beneath his bloodstained hands. He shoves away from Hongjoong and stumbles over—only half-aware of the others crowding at his back. 

“Yeosang,” he gasps as he crashes down next to San. 

Yeosang’s chest rises and falls in a subtle sign of life and his eyelids flicker but he doesn’t stir. One of the overhead support rods broke free from the ceiling in the crash and now it’s jutting bloody from Yeosang’s stomach, pinning him to the floor like a stuck butterfly. Wooyoung curls his fingers around the narrow piece of metal and reaches through his panic to his medical training. 

It looks like nothing vital was hit, based on the positioning of the rod but if he pulls it free, Yeosang might bleed out. But he has to pull it free to get Yeosang off the floor and properly treated. 

Fuck. 

A hand on his shoulder again—Seonghwa this time, looking pale and frightened beneath the dirt and blood streaked across his face but jaw tight with determination. “What do you need?” 

Before he can answer, Mingi shouts “Yunho!” and there’s another sound of screeching metal, undercut by a pained whimper. 

“I’m fine,” Yunho answers in a tone that suggests he’s anything but. However, Yunho is conscious and speaking and that means Yeosang is Wooyoung’s first priority. 

“Hyung, can you make it to the med bay?” He asks Seonghwa. “I need gauze, a shiton of gauze, sealing gel, the purple salve in the jar in the left cabinet, and an injector.” 

“On it,” Seonghwa says, vanishing from view. Wooyoung hears him pause to talk to Jongho, roping him into the medical supply run, and turns his attention to San, who is cradling Yeosang’s face—a stricken, terrified expression on his own. 

“San-ah,” Wooyoung says, “San-ah, get on his other side. I’m going to need you.” 

San nods, a sharp jerk of his head, and wobbles to his feet. He’s got a nasty gash across one shoulder—bloody skin visible through the large tear in his jacket and shirt—but he moves with his usual grace and speed as he follows Wooyoung’s directions and kneels across from him, Yesoang’s body between them. Hongjoong materializes above them, hovering anxiously. He gets prickly and jagged-edged when he feels helpless, especially when his crew is involved, and Wooyoung loves him, he does, but he can’t deal with Hongjoong and fight off an impending panic attack at the same time. 

“Hyung, I say this with great affection: please fuck off.” 

Hongjoong bristles. “Yah.” 

Wooyoung looks up at him and some of his terror must be making it onto his face because Hongjong softens again immediately. “Right,” he says. “Okay. I’ll go find out where the fuck we are.” 

He stalks off with a new purpose and Yeosang chooses that moment to wake up, choking on a gasp as his eyes fly open. San and Wooyoung nearly knock their heads together in their rush to soothe him. His eyes roam frantically around the cabin before landing on their faces. 

“Wha—” he mutters, blood bubbling on his lips, and then his gaze slides from them down to the metal pole lodged in him and he whines in horror. 

“Shh,” Wooyoung hiccups, brushing his black bangs off his forehead. “Shh, baby, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” 

“Woo—” Yeosang starts, then chokes again, wheezing. 

Wooyoung remembers his face, six years younger, streaked with soot from the fires spreading through the city they’d called home all of their lives. He remembers the crush of bodies desperate to get on the refugee ships. He remembers the bombs falling again, explosions rocking the landing dock beneath his feet, and losing Yeosang in the mayhem. He remembers three years without him, searching for his name in the manifests of every incoming ship to the backwater planet he ended up stranded on. He remembers Yeosang suddenly walking into his little weapons shop on a quiet afternoon, alive and healthy, and finally being able to breathe again.

He remembers the feeling of Yeosang in his arms as they hugged and the wet of Yeosang’s tears on his shirt and the warmth of Yeosang’s skin beneath his hands and thinks, I am not losing him again. 

“Don’t try to talk,” San says, petting Yeosang’s hair with trembling, dirty fingers. “Don’t try to talk, jagi, it’s okay.” There is the same love and grief and fierce determination on his face that Wooyoung knows must be on his own. 

Seonghwa returns—Jongho on his heels and arms ladened with supplies—and Wooyoung sinks back into what the others call Medic Mode. “Okay,” he says, all business. “Seonghwa hyung, give San the gauze and go hold Yeosang’s hand. Jongho-yah, pour the purple stuff into the injector. Yeah, just like that.” 

He looks at Yeosang again, watching them all with wide eyes. “Yeosang-ah, if you need to pass out, pass out, okay?” A tiny nod. “Good.” 

Jongho hands him the injector and he sets it next to his knee. “Anyone have a knife?” 

Jongho again, procuring one from its usual place in his boot. Wooyoung uses it to cut open Yeosang’s shirt, creating an opening around the metal and trying to carefully untangle as much fabric from the wound as he can. Yeosang hisses and squeezes Seonghwa’s hand. Once that’s done, Wooyoung picks up the injector and jabs Yeosang’s stomach three times. 

“This is a numbing agent,” he says even though they’re all aware. Talking helps his nerves and he can’t stop his mouth from running. “It’ll help but it won’t block everything out completely, I’m sorry, Yeosang-ah.”

Yeosang manages a weak smile. “‘S okay.”

Wooyoung touches the back of his hand to Yeosang’s cheek. “Alright, on three, I’m going to pull this free.” He curls his fingers carefully around the metal rod again. “San, as soon as I do, you need to put pressure on the wound. We can’t let him bleed out. Got it?” 

A nod from San and he shifts into place, thick gauze in his hands. Wooyoung takes a deep breath. 

“Okay, brace yourself, love,” he says to Yeosang, then counts, “One. Two. Three.” He grips the rod and pulls with all his strength to dislodge it from the floor . Yeosang screams, back arching as the rod comes free, and San pitches forward to press gauze over the bubbling wound. 

The gauze soaks red within seconds and San curses as he switches it out for another, pressing down harder. Wooyoung feels Jongho’s hand against his back as he leans in to help San—both of them desperately trying to staunch the blood flow. Seonghwa is curled over Yeosang’s head, whispering encouragement as Yeosang’s fingers scratch at his arm. Wooyoung thinks the others have gathered, too, but his sole focus is Yeosang and his thoughts are a mantra of can’t lose him, won’t lose him, come on, come on, come on. 

At last, at last, the bleeding slows enough for Wooyoung to disinfect the wound and pack it with sealant, spreading a final layer of gel across the surface of Yeosang’s skin to hold everything in place before he wraps fresh gauze around Yeosang’s torso. 

“There,” Wooyoung declares, shaky. He feels vaguely like he’s going to throw up. Jongho squeezes his shoulder hard enough to bruise and it’s good, grounding. Yeosang seems to have passed out again and they should move him, but Wooyoung is afraid of jostling him too much. 

“Let him rest for a few minutes, then we can move him to the med bay. If it’s intact?” 

Seonghwa nods. “It’s mostly intact. The worst of the damage is up here.” 

Wooyung forces himself to stand, trusting that Seonghwa and San will look after Yeosang. He finally turns his attention to the rest of his crewmates. Jongho’s face sports shallow scratches and some bruising along his jaw but he seems mostly fine. Mingi has nothing besides a split lip. Which leaves—

“Jeong Yunho, what’s the damage?” Wooyoung asks. “And don’t you dare lie to me.” 

Yunho is upright, which is something, but he’s leaning suspiciously against the navigation table and avoiding putting any weight on his left leg. 

“It’s not serious,” he says, the liar. If he wasn’t injured, Wooyoung would punch him. 

“I think it’s broken,” Mingi says. Yunho glares at him. 

“It’s not broken,” Yunho insists, which means that it probably is. 

Yunho once shattered half his ribs and none of them knew until he literally collapsed hours later. They’re wearing him down, but he’s still too used to being on his own—with only Mingi for occasional support. His years as a bounty hunter made him awe-inspiringly efficient and incredible in a fight (as they learned firsthand, the hard way), but a stubborn idiot when it comes to his own health and well-being. 

Fortunately, Wooyoung is just as stubborn. 

“Fine.” He crosses his arms. “Walk on it.” 

Yunho grimaces. Mingi sighs. 

“No?” Wooyoung arches an eyebrow. “Then sit the fuck down.” He points to the chair at the comms station along the far wall. 

Yunho does a little hop-turn and starts forward on his own before Mingi sighs again and wraps an arm around his back to help him. 

“Idiot,” he grumbles, but his mouth is tight with worry. 

Yunho sags into the chair, wan-faced but still calm. Wooyoung has only seen him not-calm once in the entire time they’ve known each other and that’s when Wooyoung, as part of Hongjoong’s crew, interfered with his job, stealing a mark out from under him, and he blew up their ship in retaliation. 

“It’s really not that serious,” he tries again as Wooyoung crouches in front of him and uses Jongho’s knife to unceremoniously cut his pant leg open. “Ah, Wooyoung-ah,” he almost whines. “I liked these pants.” 

“Too bad,” Wooyoung says without a drop of sympathy. 

It’s hard to see in the dim glow of the lanterns—unable to burn any brighter since they’re running on backup fuel—but Wooyoung can make out dark bruising along Yunho’s calf and feels telltale swelling beneath his fingertips. Yunho hisses quietly when he presses down, fingers white-knuckled on the arms of the chair. 

“It seems like a clean break, at least,” Wooyoung says, relief blooming in his chest. 

“Good,” Yunho says. “Just reset it and put a brace on.” 

The relief dissipates. Wooyoung glares up at Yunho, who looks steadily back. “What? No, I’m taking you to the med-bay with Yeosang—” 

“Wooyoung-ah.” Yunho’s gaze flicks to Yeosang, lying still in Seonghwa’s arms, and then back to Wooyoung. There’s both grief and steel in his eyes. “That was a Guardian ship,” he says quietly. “I can’t sit in the med-bay. Brace it and let me keep going. Please.” 

Wooyoung curses quietly under his breath. He hates that they’re not out of danger yet. He hates that he has to sacrifice the health of one of his family on the altar of pragmatism. 

“Fine,” he spits out. 

Mingi looks ready to argue but Yunho peers up at him and they have one of their silent conversations—the same kind that Wooyoung and Yeosang are capable of, a side-effect of knowing each other most of their lives. After a few seconds, Mingi blows out a sharp, defeated breath, squeezing Yunho’s shoulder.

“I’ll get a brace,” he says and stalks off in the direction of the med-bay. 

“Thank you,” Yunho mutters. 

“There’s one in the cabinet,” Wooyoung calls after him. 

“Thank you,” Yunho says to him this time. 

Wooyoung bares his teeth in response, which only makes Yunho’s mouth twitch in a smile. He has a fine layer of dust in his dark hair and his eyes look sunken, hollowed-out by exhaustion. Wooyoung imagines he doesn’t look much better, pushing his own filthy black bangs out of his eyes. 

Hongjoong chooses that moment to emerge from the cockpit—a grimace on his face that suggests he’s about to be the bearer of bad news. 

“Have you figured out where we are?” Jongho asks him, pausing in the middle of the line he’s been pacing up and down the length of the room. 

“Yeah,” Hongjoong says. “Erimos. Desert world, still in the Wilds at least, so we didn’t accidentally jump to a whole new quadrant. But nothing here except endless canyons and maybe a few trading outposts.” 

“And the ship?” Seonghwa asks. He’s carding his fingers through Yeosang’s tangled hair in soothing sweeps. 

Another grimace, and Wooyoung’s stomach sinks. “Mingi and San will have to run an actual diagnostic check, but it doesn’t look good. We’re not gonna get airborne without extensive repairs.” 

Shit. 

“Poor baby,” San murmurs, patting one of the bulkheads. “We’ll take a look once Yeosang and Yunho are taken care of.” 

Hongjoong’s gaze slides to Yeosang. He wrings his hands—nails digging into the shallow cuts along his knuckles. “How is he? I heard him scream.” 

“He’s stable,” Wooyoung says, and that’s going to be enough. Yeosang is going to pull through. 

Hongjoong nods, jerky and sharp. Mingi sweeps back into the room, clutching a metal brace in his hand. Wooyoung takes it from him with a grateful dip of his head, setting it on the floor near his knee. 

“Okay,” he says, once again reaching for his training to keep himself calm. “Take a deep breath, Yunho-yah.” Yunho obeys—a shaky inhale. Wooyoung carefully positions his hands on Yunho’s leg. “On three. One, two—” 

He forcibly shifts the bone back into alignment. Yunho jerks in the chair, eyes squeezed shut, but he doesn’t scream. Mingi makes a pained sound for him, low and soft in the back of his throat. 

Wooyoung attaches the brace next: one band around Yunho’s thigh, just above his knee, one around his mid-calf, and one around his ankle. Two flexible metal rods run the length of it, with a hinge by his kneecap, to keep everything locked tightly into place. Wooyoung designed it himself and it’s got much better range of movement than something you’d find in a clinic, even if the elegance of the design could still use some work. 

“There,” he announces. “Don’t walk on it until you have to.” 

“Yessir,” Yunho wheezes. 

Wooyoung gently pats his knee and rises to his feet. As one, he can feel them all shift in Hongjoong’s direction, waiting for instructions now that the immediate danger has passed. Hongjoong responds in kind: features settling into the sharper angles of their captain, spine straightening, worry and doubt shed like dead skin. 

“Mingi, San,” he says, “check on the ship. Give me a full damage report and what we need to do to fix it.” Mingi nods and San salutes. 

“Jongho, take a flier and go scouting. I want to know how close to the nearest outpost we are and what the landscape is out there.” Relief breaks over Jongho’s face at being given something to do. 

“Yes, captain,” he says. 

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong continues, “take Yeosang to the med bay, then check comms. See if we can send any signals out.” At Seonghwa’s acknowledgement, he glances at Yunho. “You stay put.” 

Yunho frowns at him, but doesn’t protest any further. A miracle. 

“I’m going to check on our cargo. Make sure everything’s still intact.” 

His gaze turns to Wooyoung last and holds, assessing. “Wooyoung….” Wooyoung braces himself, ready to be given another assignment, but all Hongjoong says is, “take a breather.” 

For a second, he wants to argue. To insist that he can be useful and how dare Hongjoong try to sideline him, but then he glances down and realizes that his hands are both covered in Yeosang’s drying blood and trembling violently. Oh, he thinks, a wave of sudden dizziness rushing over him now that the adrenaline is fading. 

Okay, yes, he needs a breather. After Yeosang is safe. 

Seonghwa carefully gathers Yeosang into his arms, and Wooyoung follows him through the winding corridors and down the steps to the med bay on the lower level. As Seonghwa promised, it’s mostly intact. They keep most everything locked away or bolted down, which means that the worst of the damage is a few spilled containers of bandages and salve that escaped when one of the cupboards got knocked open. Wooyoung cleans them up while Seonghwa lays Yeosang on one of the two beds and fits a vital monitoring plate over his chest. It will continuously scan and sound an alert if anything changes or Yeosang wakes up. Wooyoung slips the alert band onto his bloody wrist. 

Seonghwa tucks a blanket over Yeosang, pausing to smooth back his hair before he turns to Wooyoung. “I’m going back up to the bridge. Please actually take a breather.” 

Wooyoung nods. Once Seonghwa’s left, he shuffles forward and presses an aching, lingering kiss to Yeosang’s forehead. “I’ll come running as soon as you wake up,” he promises. 

Yeosang doesn’t stir, which Wooyoung tells himself is a good thing. He pries himself away, heading back up top. Seonghwa and Yunho are huddled together at the comm station—Yunho still confined to his chair—while Mingi has moved back up to the cockpit, conferring with Hongjoong as he examines buttons and dials and readouts that Wooyoung’s never bothered to learn the meaning of. The ship ramp has been lowered, so Wooyoung stumbles outside to take the promised breather. 

Hot, dry air blasts him in the face and his boots hit coarse sand at the bottom of the ramp. He squints against the sudden brightness, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. Once they adjust, he realizes that the ship is sitting beneath a large overhang. Rust red rock extends over his head, cut through by swirling, glimmering patterns of yellow, blue, and green mineral deposits. Beyond the overhang, he can see the path of their ship marked in the blackened sand—a long line from the middle of the canyon floor all the way to its current resting place. 

He whistles. Shit, they traveled far. It’s lucky they didn’t smash into the canyon wall. 

“Crazy, right?” San’s voice comes from above him. 

He whirls around, spotting San perched on top of the ship. He’s stripped down to his undershirt and pulled his dark hair into a small ponytail at the crown of his head, and he peers down at Wooyoung from behind the shield of large protective goggles that swallow half of his face. 

There’s still at least two full meters between him and the bottom of the overhang. 

“Yeah, can’t believe you managed to stop in time.” 

“It took everything we had,” San says, “and the ship still took a ton of damage. Though mostly courtesy of the Guardian ship, not just the impact.” 

“How bad?” 

San shakes his head. “Tell you later. Don’t worry for now.” 

Wooyoung scowls at him. “Yah, I don’t need to be coddled.” 

“It’s not coddling,” San promises. He’s got a data tablet in his hand that he pauses to punch information into. “I literally don’t know yet. But Mago’s pretty beat up.” 

Mago. San’s pet name for the ship that Mingi always sighs at but has come to accept. Perhaps because the name comes from a goddess on San’s homeworld and there is little left of that planet now—ravaged by the war and subjected to brutal oppression by the new empire seeking to control the mining and refinement of Dust. Being one of the only planets in the system to have natural deposits of the mineral needed to fuel starships once made Samhan rich and powerful, but everything’s different now. 

It’s a new galaxy they’re trying to survive in. 

“Fine,” Wooyoung relents. “Tell Mago it’s gonna be okay.” 

San grins. “I will.” His earpiece crackles—probably Mingi in the cockpit—and he shifts his attention back to his work. 

Wooyoung leaves the ship behind, venturing out from the overhang to get a better stock of their surroundings. They’re in a large, circular clearing that’s surrounded on all sides by towering cliffs. Dead ahead, a canyon yawns—dozens of meters deep and wide. It cuts a straight path through the earth before curving to the left, probably winding its way through hundreds of kilometers across the planet’s surface. 

From what Wooyoung recalls, every living thing on Erimos resides in these vast networks of canyons, chasms, and craters, seeking shelter from the vicious scorch of its massive sun. 

Footsteps crunch in the sand: Jongho, approaching with a rifle slung across his back, a protective poncho draped over his torso, and goggles on his face. He clutches a flier in one gloved hand. The little mechanical bird runs on tiny portions of Dust, can travel for hours, and sends live footage of terrain back to the HUD wired into Jongho’s goggles. 

Wooyoung helped Yeosang design the whole system and he’s proud of it. It remains one of his better inventions. 

“You okay, hyung?” Jongho asks, pausing next to Wooyoung. 

“I will be,” Wooyoung says. He wants to get Yeosang’s blood off his hands and sleep for a week, until his body stops aching, but he no longer feels like he’s about to fall apart. 

He hates when Hongjoong is right. 

“Good,” Jongho says, pulling the hood of his poncho up. The beige material blends in well with their surroundings. 

“Be careful out there,” Wooyoung says. 

Jongho gives him a small, confident smile. “I always am.” 

He activates the flier with the press of a switch and throws it into the air. Its wings unfurl and it hovers for a second, calibrating, before it zooms off down the canyon. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Jongho says, breaking into a jog to follow it. 

Wooyoung watches his retreating back until he reaches the bend in the canyon’s path and disappears from view. 

_ _ 

“Okay,” Mingi says a few hours later. “We have good news and bad news.” 

They’re all gathered on the bridge again except for Yeosang, still asleep,  and Jongho, who hasn’t returned. Wooyoung’s managed to clean himself up—enough to change clothes and finally get all the blood and grime off of him—but Mingi and San still look like they’ve been through a battle, covered in grease and soot. 

“What’s the good news?” Hongjoong asks. 

“We can repair Mago ourselves,” San says, bright.

“And the bad?” 

“We need additional parts to do it,” Mingi says—a grim contrast to San’s optimism.

Hongjoong curses under his breath, raking a frustrated hand through his hair. “Rare parts?” 

San shakes his head, which relaxes everyone a fraction. “No, fortunately not. A trading outpost should have them.” 

“It just depends on how far we are from one,” Mingi says. 

Seonghwa glances to the cockpit and out the front viewport where the setting sun casts long shadows across the canyon walls and the wind has picked up, ripping sand from the ground and flinging it into the air. “Jongho’s not back yet.” 

“He will be,” Yunho says with confidence. “He’s the best scout we have.” 

As though he’s been summoned, Jongho chooses that moment to blow up the ramp in a flurry of sand. He coughs, slamming the button to close the door behind him, and he looks a little ghostly with a layer of red dust all over his face and poncho, but mostly unharmed. Seonghwa still hurries to his side, helping him remove the rifle from his back and brush sand from his hair. 

“I’m fine, hyung,” Jongho promises. He sets the flier on the navigation table and shoves his goggles up onto his forehead, revealing two perfect circles of clear skin amidst the dust coating. “The canyons really do go on forever. From what I can tell, they cover this entire region. But, there’s a crater about half a day’s walk from here and in that crater is a trading outpost.” 

A collective sigh of relief runs through the room. 

“Thank the gods,” Hongjoong mutters. 

“You don’t believe in gods,” Yunho points out—mouth twisted in wry amusement. 

Hongjoong shoots him a weary look. “I do now.” He glances at each of his crew in turn. “Okay, here’s the plan: everyone sleep tonight, try to get some rest. At dawn, Jongho, Mingi, San, and I will head to the traveler’s outpost to pick up supplies and parts for the Destiny. I’ll wire our client, too—let them know the supplies are still coming. Seonghwa and Wooyoung will stay with the ship and look after Yunho and Yeosang. Good?” 

Wooyoung hates the prospect of being stuck on the ship, but he would hate to leave Yeosang even more. 

“Good,” Seonghwa agrees, speaking for the rest of them. 

Hongjoong nods. His expression softens again—their captain melting away, leaving their hyung behind. “I’m glad you’re all okay.” 

“We’ll get through this,” San says. More of that unfailing optimism that Wooyoung often envies. “We’ve gotten through worse.” 

And it’s true, isn’t it? They’ve survived a war. They’ve survived the rise of an empire and the end of everything they knew. They’ve survived the burial of what they could have been—the people they once were. They emerged from that grave dirt with steel in their spines and grit between their teeth, and two years after Braxis secured its victory, they’re still here, still fighting. 

They move forward. There’s nothing else to do. 

_ _ 

Wooyoung can’t sleep. He tried in his bunk—tossing and turning for an hour before Mingi rapped on the wall and asked him to please be quiet. Giving up, he crept to the med bay and planted himself at Yeosang’s bedside, reaching under the blanket to thread his fingers through Yeosang’s limp ones. 

Now, his back aches and his eyes feel heavy, but he knows that if he surrenders, terrible dreams are going to be waiting for him. The ones where he watches Yeosang die on that loading dock, unable to make it to the evacuation ships. The ones where he staggers through a destroyed, smoldering city and sees the bloody faces of his loved ones amidst the rubble as ash fills his lungs. The ones where he’s all alone in an empty world—the last living thing, and no one to hear him scream. 

The med bay door hisses open, startling him from his haze. Hongjoong slips inside, closing it behind him. He’s shed his black coat for the baggy shirt he normally sleeps in, and he looks smaller this way. More fragile. More human. 

As haunted and exhausted as they all are on their bad days. 

“You should be sleeping,” he says as he pulls up a chair next to Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung scoffs. “So should you.” 

“I’m the captain.” 

“And I’m the medic.” 

Hongjoong’s mouth quirks. “We’re both terrible, I guess.” 

Wooyoung huffs a tired laugh. “You’re the one that chose us. I guess like attracts like.” 

“Yah, I didn’t choose you,” Hongjoong protests, poking him in the shoulder. “You all just decided to join and take over my ship.” 

“Technically it’s Mingi’s ship.” 

“Only because Yunho blew up my ship.” 

“That was Seonghwa’s ship.” 

Hongjoong waves a dismissive hand. “Semantics.” 

Wooyoung peers at him, taking in the bags under his eyes that look almost as deep as the canyons outside and the subtle twitching of his fingers. Ah. How to approach this? If he expresses too much sympathy, Hongjoong will scuttle away like an angry crab. But treat it too lightly and Hongjoong will brush his concern aside. 

Blunt honesty, then. 

“Do you need another tonic? I can mix you one.” 

Hongjoong sighs at him, a sharp punch of breath, but the claws don’t come out. “No,” he says. Wooyoung glares, unimpressed, and Hongjoong shakes his head. “They only help so much, Wooyoung-ah. You know that.” 

Wooyoung kicks him, gently, in the ankle. “It’s still better than doing nothing, hyung.” 

“I’m fine, ” Hongjoong insists. “I’m present. My head’s clear.” A wan smile. “And too much tonic just makes me numb. That can’t happen right now anyway.” 

Hongjoong’s right , is the frustrating thing. There is no cure for the side effects of the Mist—memory loss, occasional disorientation and hallucinations, creeping paranoia. Wooyoung has tried every remedy he can think of, both from his training and what he’s been able to find in the medical communities of planets they visit, and nothing stops the bad days completely. 

Braxis brewed toxins in their laboratories and dropped them on entire cities. All the victims, all Hongjoong, can do now is endure. 

Wooyoung hates it. 

“Okay,” he mutters in surrender. “But I’m watching you.” He points a finger at Hongjoong, who glares back at him. “If it gets too bad, I’m telling Seonghwa.” 

That makes Hongjoong grimace and look away. Someday, Wooyoung thinks, his captain and first mate will finally talk about the big, disgustingly non-platonic feelings they have for each other but it might not be for another century, at this rate. 

“You’re terrible,” Hongjoong huffs. “I should fire you.” 

“And starve?” Wooyoung asks with an arched eyebrow. “I’m your weapons specialist, your medic, and your cook. I’m more valuable than you.” 

Hongjoong kicks him in the shin, but he’s fighting a smile now. Wooyoung bites his lip to keep his own mouth from betraying him. 

“Brat,” Hongjoong says without much heat. “Try to at least get some sleep.” 

He pushes himself to his feet, pausing to look at Yeosang. His hand twitches towards Yeosang’s face before he pulls it back. 

You can touch him, Wooyoung wants to say. You can touch any of us. But some things are always a battle and their captain is prickly—all wrapped in fierce spines that never let any of them close, not even Seonghwa. 

Someday, though, they’ll wear him down just like they have Yunho. Wooyoung is sure of it. 

“You too,” is all he says. “Get some sleep, hyung. That’s an order.” 

Another glare. “I’m the captain.” 

“And I’m the medic.” 

Hongjoong rolls his eyes but leaves the med bay to hopefully sleep. Alone again in the quiet, Wooyoung slumps forward, resting his upper body on the bed with his head carefully positioned on Yeosang’s thigh. He keeps hold on Yeosang’s hand as he finally lets his eyes drift shut—still nervous about nightmares but knowing that he needs to sleep. 

They have a long day ahead of them tomorrow. 

_ _ 

The city is empty, decaying and dead. The burnt out buildings have crumbled to ruin and the bodies decomposed to skeletons. Yellow mist hangs in the air, choking his lungs as he tries to walk. His vision goes hazy, blurring at the edges. When he blinks to clear it, the buildings burn again. 

Bombs in the distance, crushing the city to ash and mortar. The screams are even louder, ringing in his ears. He tries to scream, too: the name of someone whose hand should be gripped tight in his own. But his voice is gone, even though he can feel the ache in his jaw as he stretches his mouth wide. 

The sky is red. The fire is red. The blood that stains his hands is red. The banners of the Braxian soldiers marching through the city that used to be his home are red. 

He drowns in it, he chokes on ash, he—

Wakes up to familiar fingers tangled in his hair, mouth open and gasping against the fabric of the med bay bed as he reminds himself that his lungs are clear and he can breathe. The fingers tighten, grounding, and only one person knows to do that for him, not even San…. 

“Yeosang-ah,” he murmurs without opening his eyes. 

“You were loud,” Yeosang whispers back, voice rasping and exhausted but steady, and with his usual wry tone back. “Woke me up.” 

Wooyoung wheezes out a tired laugh. “Sorry.” 

He takes another deep, steadying breath and sit ups on the exhale. Yeosang’s hand falls away, landing back at his side. He’s still tucked under the blankets with the monitoring plate on his chest, projecting steady vitals across its smooth metal surface. Another device on the wall displays environmental readings from outside the ship and declares that it’s morning and the current temperature is already over 37°C outside. 

“How are you feeling?” Wooyoung asks, getting up to pour Yeosang a glass of water from the cooler. His limbs crack in protest and his neck aches from sleeping slumped over. Seonghwa will probably scold him for not taking proper care of himself, but that’s been an ongoing lecture for as long as they’ve known each other. 

“Like I got punched through by a giant piece of metal,” Yeosang croaks. 

Wooyoung hums in sympathy and helps Yeosang lift his head so that he can drink. He grimaces at the taste of the water. “Did you put something in this?” 

“Yah, no whining. It’s already infused with sana powder so just deal with the taste, it’ll help you heal.” 

Wooyoung traded several precious weapons to get his hands on some of the little flowers that contain extraordinary healing properties. Like Dust, the sale and cultivation of it is another thing that Braxis has exerted tight control over, and it’s become both scarce and expensive on the black market. But Wooyoung would trade the whole fucking ship if it meant keeping Yeosang alive. He just isn’t going to tell Mingi or San that. 

Yeosang sighs but finishes the glass and slumps back against the bed, eyes fluttering closed again. 

“I should check your bandages,” Wooyoung says. They’re running critically low on gauze, salve, and painkillers, but he’s had to ration before—he can probably stretch them for at least a few days. 

Yeosang hums without opening his eyes. As Wooyoung shifts to remove the monitoring plate the door slides open, admitting Seonghwa. He still looks haggard—skin wan, black hair falling into his eyes instead of slicked back the way he normally prefers it—and it negates the effect of the reassuring smile he offers them. 

“You’re awake,” he says, coming over to squeeze Yeosang’s hand. “I’m so glad.” 

“‘M not,” Yeosang grumbles, squeezing Seonghwa’s hand back. 

Seonghwa turns to Wooyoung. “We need you up top. The scouting party is departing for the outpost.” 

Wooyoung hesitates, loathe to leave Yeosang, but Yeosang flops his hand in a weak, dismissive gesture. “Go. I wanna sleep some more. We can go through the ordeal of bandage-changing later.” 

“Okay,” Wooyoung relents. He holds up his wrist to show off the band still around it. “This is attached to the chest plate so just tap on if it you need anything and I’ll—” 

“Wooyoung-ah,” Yeosang says, exasperated, “I know how it works. Go.”

Wooyoung goes. 

_ _ 

In the main cabin, San, Mingi, Jongho, and Hongjoong are all dressed in ponchos and goggles with packs strapped to their backs. Yunho has stubbornly taken a seat back at the comms station, but at least he’s kept the brace on so Wooyoung doesn’t have to murder him. 

“We’ll be back by tonight, dawn at the latest,” Hongjoong promises, checking the gun he has strapped to one hip and the sword on the other. 

“Be careful,” Seonghwa says, hovering nearby and trying not to seem as anxious as he clearly is. 

Wooyoung wishes the two of them would just kiss and get it over with, but he holds his tongue as he watches Hongjoong reach out and clasp Seonghwa’s shoulder. 

“Take care of the ship, Seonghwa-yah. And the others. We’ll be fine.” 

Seonghwa nods, not looking very reassured. Wooyoung leaves them to whatever is left in their weird mating ritual to pull San aside. 

“We need medical supplies,” he says, trying to mask his own nerves. “Can you pick some up? Fresh gauze, salve—that purple kind, painkillers, and we could use some more applicators now that I’m thinking about it but those aren’t as big of a concern—”

“Wooyoung-ah,” San says very gently, taking Wooyoung’s hands, “I’ve got it. I’ll get everything, don’t worry.” 

“Right.” Wooyoung smiles through his embarrassment. He doesn’t like being frazzled in front of the others, even though it sometimes feels like they’re all composed of nothing but fraying threads. “Thank you. And be careful.” 

San squeezes his hand—a brief, reassuring pressure. “I will,” he promises. “You too.” 

“I’m always careful,” Wooyoung insists. Neither of them comment on how much of a blatant lie that is. 

“Stay safe,” Mingi announces, mostly focused on Yunho but glancing at Wooyoung and Seonghwa too. “Don’t do anything to my ship.” 

“Our ship,” San corrects. 

“My ship,” Hongjoong huffs. 

“We should go,” Jongho says, cutting through the bickering like he usually does. “The temperature is rising.” 

And just like that, with another round of waves, the four of them disappear down the ramp and out into the growing light. Seonghwa seals the door behind them, shutting out the heat, and sighs. 

“You should rest, Yunho-yah,” he says. “They won’t be back for hours.” 

Yunho looks grim—so grim that Wooyoung feels a sudden, heavy dread thump into his stomach like a boulder. 

“We can’t rest,” Yunho says, voice as grim as his expression. “That was a Guardian ship. They’ll be tracking us. We need to prepare.” 

Seonghwa frowns. “We did an unnavigated jump, how would they be able to track that?” 

“Even unnavigated jumps leave Dust trails,” Yunho points out. “And we didn’t leave the quadrant. They’ll be able to find us eventually.” 

Wooyoung presses his tongue to his teeth. He’s heard stories about Guardians: the behemoth, deadly soldiers of the new empire. The stories go that they’re not even human, that they’re machines with a veneer of flesh. The stories go that they’re unstoppable, that one Guardian can take on an entire battalion of soldiers and emerge victorious. The stories go that they’re ruthless, that they can’t be reasoned or bargained with. 

But he chose to believe that they’re just stories. Now Yunho’s face is telling him otherwise and he hates it. 

“Please put your face away,” he says to Yunho. “It’s terrifying.” 

Yunho does not put his face away. If anything, he manages to look even more grim. “We need to prepare.” 

“You said that already,” Wooyoung snaps. 

“Would the Emperor’s Guardians really bother with a bunch of lowly smugglers?” Seonghwa asks. He’s crossed his arms over his chest but his tense fingers are digging into his skin, creating deep furrows in the sleeves of his black shirt. 

“Maybe not a bunch of lowly smugglers,” Yunho says. “But the Black Pirates? If they’ve figured out who we are, then yes. They’ll come.” 

For a moment, pure, unfiltered terror seizes Seonghwa’s expression. It startles Wooyoung, who is used to Seonghwa tired and exasperated and determined but never truly afraid. It’s gone in a blink, filtered behind the calm mask that Seonghwa usually wears when he’s trying to put up with their antics or win some debate against Hongjoong. 

“I see,” he says and his voice wobbles a little on the first syllable before steadying. “Have you faced them before?” 

“Once,” Yunho says. “During the war.” He licks his chapped lips. The comms chair creaks in loud protest as he shifts his weight. “I dropped a bomb on it, hyung. It kept coming like it was nothing. Mingi and I had to flee the planet and make five unnavigated jumps before we felt safe.” 

“Gods,” Seonghwa breathes. But he’s their second-in-command for a reason. While Wooyoung wants to open his mouth and emit one long, neverending scream until he passes out, Seonghwa drops his hands to his sides and says, “we need to cloak the ship, then. And hide the evidence of our crash.” 

Yunho nods. “And prepare all the explosives we have.” He glances at Wooyoung, sad and apologetic. “We’ll need Yeosang.” 

Wooyoung bristles. “He’s asleep in the med bay right now. In case you somehow missed it, even though you were right there, he nearly bled to death less than twenty-four hours ago.” 

“I know,” Yunho says. “We still need him. He’s the only one who’s going to be able to get the cloaking working with the ship in this state.” 

Yunho is right, damnit, but Wooyoung still wants to fight him. Wants to deck him in his stupid, serious face, or sink teeth into his shoulder far past the point of affection, all the way until they touch bone. 

He takes a deep breath, shoving down the fear that makes him feral. “Fine,” he grits out. “I’ll go wake him up and—”

“No need,” a weak voice comes from the direction of the stairs and Wooyoung spins to see Yeosang leaning against one of the bulkheads with a protective arm around his middle. “‘M up.” 

“Yah!” Wooyoung yells, fear rushing right back. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“I got tired of staring at the ceiling in the med bay,” Yeosang says as Wooyoung and Seonghwa both hurry to his side. 

Somehow, he managed to walk all the way up here but now it’s clear the bulkhead is the only thing keeping him upright. His face is shiny with sweat, making his hair stick to his forehead and cheeks, and his skin is far too pale. His birthmark stands out deep red against it, like a burn, and Wooyoung wants to pick him up and carry him back downstairs, strap him to the bed—anything to ensure he stays safe. 

But Yeosang is stubborn, he forgets that. Because the stubbornness is more quiet than Wooyoung’s own belligerent kind. Wooyoung’s is a storm, designed to push you away, cut you open, but Yeosang silently sinks roots of himself deep into cracked earth and refuses to be moved. Wooyoung stares at the tense line of his jaw and the fire in his eyes that blazes even through the weariness and pain, and knows he would lose this battle if he tried to fight it. 

“You idiot,” he still says. 

“I know,” Yeosang murmurs as Seonghwa loops an arm around his back to keep him steady. “Yell at me later.” 

“Oh I will.” 

Seonghwa carefully eases Yeosang into the chair next to Yunho and Wooyoung crouches in front of him, pulling open his loose white shirt to check the gauze wrapped around his stomach. It’s reddened but not alarmingly so, the sealing gel is holding well. Wooyoung sets a time on the now mostly useless wrist device and listens as it starts to tick down. 

“Two hours,” he says. “Then I’m changing these.” 

“Deal,” Yeosang says. “And I helped myself to some painkillers.” 

“Good.” At least Yeosang’s not a complete idiot. 

“How much did you hear?” Seonghwa asks, crouched on Yeosang’s other side. 

“Guardian ship probably incoming,” Yeosang says. “Need to hide.” 

“Can you cloak the ship?” Yunho asks. 

Yeosang grimaces. “Probably? Put me in the cockpit and I’ll tell you for sure.” 

Seonghwa nods and then just picks Yeosang up, scooping him carefully into his arms bridal style. Yeosang makes a startled sound, gripping the back of Seonghwa’s neck for balance. “Hyung,” he protests. 

“Not a word,” Seonghwa says, marching off in the direction of the cockpit. 

Something is niggling at the back of Wooyoung’s mind—an insistent question. “Why didn’t you tell the others?” He asks Yunho. “About the Guardian ship?” 

Yunho’s mouth presses into a thin, sharp line. “Because then they would have stayed.” 

Once again, Wooyoung hates Yunho’s pragmatism. Hates how good they’ve all become at calculated sacrifices. Better only four of them dead than all of them if this goes south; better a chance that they get supplies and let their clients know what’s happened in case things don’t go south. 

“Okay, fair,” he concedes. 

“Good news,” Yeosang calls from the cockpit. “I can still cloak the ship.” 

“I’m sensing there’s also bad news,” Seonghwa says, hovering next to the pilot chair where he carefully placed Yeosang. 

That is the trend of the last day, so it’s not a surprise when Yeosang sighs and says, “it’ll only last for a few hours.” 

“How many?” Yunho asks. 

Yeosang shrugs. “Don’t know for sure with the ship so damaged. Let’s say two?” 

Yunho rubs an anxious hand over his jaw. “Okay. Two.” Then, because he’s a stubborn idiot, he pushes himself up out of the chair, completely ignoring the warning glare that Wooyoung levels at him. 

“Hyung, Wooyoung-ah, can you take care of the evidence outside? I’ll start getting weapons together.” 

“I’ll stay here,” Yeosang announces. “And monitor the ship. The pilot’s chair is comfy, Mingi should let more people sit in it.” 

Seonghwa’s mouth quirks in an affectionate smile. “That’ll never happen so take advantage now.” 

Wooyoung pinches the bridge of his nose. “No one is going to listen to me about taking it easy and not idiotically reopening their wounds, are they?” 

Seonghwa pats his shoulder in sympathy. 

_ _ 

So Wooyoung finds himself outside with goggles and a poncho on, getting his boots full of sand as he buries the scorch trail of their ship. Seonghwa works next to him, moving his feet in graceful, sweeping arcs. He looks like he barely even feels the heat, or the sand, and as always Wooyoung is wildly envious of how effortless he makes everything seem. 

Wooyoung just tries to make the spread of the sand look natural, hoping that the wind will pick up at some point in the near future and lend them a hand. He’s so focused on the patterns beneath his feet that everything else fades—the world narrowed down to the grit of the sand in his socks, the rhythm of left, right, left, right, left, right. Seonghwa’s sudden hand on his shoulder startles him into a forward jerk, a little shout of alarm escaping his mouth. 

“Quiet,” Seonghwa says, in his own captain mode. “Do you hear that?” 

Wooyoung swallows down the admonishment he’d been about to aim at Seonghwa for startling him so badly and closes his eyes, focusing. For a few seconds, all he can hear is the low whistle of the breeze but then another sound cuts through it, gaining in volume. 

The distinctive rumble of ship engines. 

“Shit,” he mutters. 

“Run!” Seonghwa hisses. “Back to the ship.” 

Wooyoung sprints, relieved that the loose sand fills in his staggering footprints enough to obscure them from view. He reaches Mago’s ramp just as the second ship appears in the sky. It’s definitely imperial—he’d recognize that spiky, awful Braxis design anywhere after how many times he’s seen it in his nightmares. Together, he and Seonghwa crouch at the base of the ramp and watch as the ship flies west, then north, then east, then south in what appears to be a grid. 

“Search pattern,” Seonghwa says. “They definitely know we crashed in this area.” 

“Great,” Wooyoung injects so much false cheer into his voice that Seonghwa glares at him. “That’s awesome.” 

The door opens behind them, revealing a thunderous Yunho. “What the fuck are you two doing? Get inside!” 

“Excuse me,” Seonghwa says, even as he stands to continue up the ramp, “I’m your hyung. And your second-in-command.” 

“Neither of which matter if you’re dead because you were stupid,” Yunho fires back, hobbling aside to the usher them in. 

“The overhang was hiding us,” Wooyoung insists, needing to defend his own intelligence, especially from Yunho. 

Yunho levels him with a look that perfectly conveys how momumentally stupid he thinks that argument is and Wooyoung briefly contemplates breaking his other leg. 

“Yeosang-ah!” Yunho calls back up to the cockpit. “Are we cloaked?” 

“We’re cloaked!” Yeosang calls back. “For at least the next two hours.” 

“What are the chances of them giving up?” Seonghwa asks, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead as the engine noises continue outside, growing louder and then fading again in a repeating pattern. 

“Zero,” Yunho says. 

He limps further into the room, brace creaking with each heavy step, and Wooyoung notices that he’s managed to drag just about every major weapon up from storage. They’re all laid out in neat, organized groupings across the metal floor: three rifles, four pistols, about ten mines, their only two energy grenades, and a tangle of razor-sharp tripwires. 

“Huh,” Wooyoung says, finally remembering to tug his own goggles down to hang around his neck, “I thought we had more than this.” 

The last time he got a chance to run inventory was two jobs ago, though. 

“We did,” Yunho says. “But then there was that… hiccup on Montress last month, remember?” 

Oh right. The hiccup: getting ambushed by a rival smuggling crew and drawn into a firefight. Annoying business, all of it. 

Seonghwa sighs. “I guess we make do. And your face says you have a plan. Care to share?” 

Yunho does have his Planning Face on—jaw tense, lips slightly pursed, eyes focused and burning. It’s a pretty scary face, but fortunately Yunho doesn’t plan against them anymore. Usually. Most of the time. Except when they (Wooyoung) decide to steal his food or his shampoo or bite him one too many times in a row. 

“We have the element of surprise right now,” Yunho says, picking up the most intimidating rifle from the lineup—the one that Wooyoung designed to be fitted with rounds strong enough to pierce a ship’s hull, “I’m going to take advantage of it.” 

He loads in the charge pack with deft fingers and hefts the rifle onto his shoulder. A muscle in his cheek twitches, betraying just how much pain he’s probably in. 

“You can barely stand up,” Seonghwa protests, reaching for him. 

Yunho shifts out of range. “I’m still our best shot.” 

“Fuck, stop being right,” Wooyoung grumbles. 

“Sorry,” Yunho says, smirking. “Can’t help it that I’m the only one with a brain.” 

“Yah, I will break another bone of yours.” 

“Children,” Seonghwa sighs. The Guardian ship flies closer again—engines like a low rumble of thunder. 

“I’ll be fine,” Yunho reassures them and limps down the ramp. 

Wooyoung still follows, hovering at the edge of the protective overhang. The gathering wind tugs at the edges of Yunho’s long black coat, whipping them around his legs. He walks until he’s several meters away from the ship, in the middle of the open space between the red canyon walls. Then, he plants his feet wide and readies the rifle with a practiced, steady grip, peering down the scope. On the horizon, the Guardian ship appears like a large black insect, growing bigger and bigger and bigger. 

Yunho’s shoulders relax. His finger curls around the trigger as he tracks the ship’s path. 

BANG. 

The sound echoes down the canyon, bouncing off the walls in a wild cacophony. And the shot punches a hole through the side of the Guardian ship, right into their fucking engine. A deafening explosion rattles the rock around them and the ground beneath their feet, forcing Wooyoung to drop into a crouch to keep from falling over. Pieces of smoking debris hail down, causing eruptions of sand with each thudding impact. Yunho casually leans out of the way of one, focused on the Guardian ship as it fights to stay in the sky. 

It tries to retreat, flying south, in the supposed direction of the trading outpost, but it can’t maintain altitude and dovetails, spiraling out of view into a different canyon. 

Wooyoung whoops, punching a fist into the air.

“You’re terrifying!” he shouts to Yunho. 

Yunho shakes his head. Sways dangerously—energy spent from absorbing the rifle’s kickback. 

“Shit,” Wooyoung curses under his breath, rushing forward to catch Yunho before he faceplants into the hot sand. 

“‘M fine,” Yunho insists, even as the rifle slips from his fingers. 

“Shut up,” Wooyoung says, wrapping a steadying arm around Yunho’s waist. “You saved the day, you can stop being a stubborn idiot and rest now, Yunho-yah.” 

“No,” Yunho mutters, but he lets Wooyoung steer him back towards the ship, leaning on Wooyoung for support. “‘S not over yet.” 

What? 

“You just shot them out of the fucking sky.” 

“I evened the playing field,” Yunho explains. “Enough to maybe get us out of this alive. But we’re just starting.” 

What? Just starting? 

“Fuck.” 

Yunho wheezes a laugh. “Exactly.” 

Seonghwa materializes at the top of the ramp, arms already outstretched to take Yunho. Wooyoung passes him over, then jogs back to retrieve the discarded rifle, grunting as he lifts it out of the sand. Gods, he probably needs to take Jongho up on his long-standing offer to provide workout lessons if they survive this. 

Back inside the ship, he returns the rifle to its place on the floor and crouches next to Yunho, who has sprawled his long limbs everywhere. “Are the stories true, then? About them being machines?” 

“Not entirely,” Yunho murmurs, tipping his head back against the side of the navigation table. “It’s worse.” 

“Worse?” Seonghwa asks, then gets up to scold Yeosang when he comes shuffling out of the cockpit, helping him into the comms chair. 

“Amazing shot,” Yeosang says—definitely a shade or two paler than before but still fully coherent. Good. “Have I mentioned that I’m glad you’re on our side?” 

“Yeah, yeah, Yunho’s a badass and we’re lucky he didn’t kill us.” Wooyoung flicks his hand. “Back to ‘worse’ and what you mean by that.” 

Yunho sighs and closes his eyes. “I don’t know for certain. Just from rumors, things I saw back on Ando after the invasion. It’s only a theory.” 

“Okay, fine,” Wooyoung says, occupying himself with surreptitiously checking the hinges on Yunho’s brace because Yunho is the hardest of them to take care of after Hongjoong and this is all the fussing he’ll probably allow, but dammit Wooyoung has to do something or he’ll go insane. “Still share the theory with the class, please.” 

“You’ve heard of the SEA right?” 

“The Space Exploration Academy,” Wooyoung says with a nod. “Who hasn’t?” 

Ando was renowned for training the best and brightest cadets to embark on long, possibly one-way missions into the vast reaches of uncharted space in an effort to map the galaxy and find new worlds that could provide resources, or even homes for intrepid colonists looking to build a society from the ground up. But all of that’s over now. 

Braxis invaded and the SEA became a source of canon fodder—hundreds of cadets conscripted into the ranks of Braxis’ mighty imperial army. 

“I was a cadet,” Yunho murmurs, opening haunted eyes, and honestly that’s the least surprising information he’s ever shared. “Along with Mingi. When Braxis conquered the planet….” He sighs. “It wasn’t just conscription. Cadets started disappearing and there were rumors that human experimentation was happening. That…that Braxis was turning them into super warriors. Something between people and machines.” 

Wooyoung shouldn’t feel surprised, or sick. Braxis’s atrocities over the last six years are well-documented and unlimited, continuing to increase as they cement absolute control over the galaxy. This still rattles him, sending a rush of bile up his throat. 

“Gods,” Yeosang breathes. 

“I received a summons,” Yunho continues. “For a special program—they wouldn’t tell me what. That’s when Mingi and I ran.” 

“So trying to pair human-level intelligence with a machine’s durability,” Seonghwa says. “It’s ingenious.” 

“It’s cruel,” Wooyoung snaps, twisting to glare at him. 

“It is,” Seonghwa agrees, unfazed by Wooyoung’s ire. “And it got them super soldiers.” 

“That are now trying to kill us,” Yeosang says, rubbing twitching fingers along his jaw. “So how do we stop them?” 

“We throw everything we’ve got at them,” Yunho says. “We can trap the canyon entrance to start. I don’t think they’ll come down over the walls. The sun at surface-level would fry them. Are any of the ship’s weapons online?” 

“The forward guns can be,” Yeosang says. “But I’ll have to divert power from life support systems and the shields.”

“Hyung?” Yunho turns to Seonghwa, who is still their second-in-command. 

“Do it,” Seonghwa decides. “If it will help.” 

Wooyoung rises to his feet, itching to be useful. “Seonghwa hyung, you can help me with the traps.” 

Yunho predictably opens his mouth to protest and Wooyoung kicks his good leg. “Yah, shut it. Your leg is still broken. This isn’t a magical healing brace. Stay put. Help Yeosang.” 

“I am probably going to need someone to carry me back to the cockpit,” Yeosang mutters, slumped in the comms chair. “And bring me more painkillers.” 

“I can do one of those things,” Yunho says, hauling himself to his feet. “I’ll be right back.” He limps off in the direction of the medbay and Seonghwa scoops Yeosang back into his arms, grunting with the effort of lifting him. 

“You have too many muscles, Yeosang-ah.” 

“Thanks, hyung.” 

Wooyoung drifts over to the inventory Yunho assembled, brushing his hands over the mines. He regrets not only Montross but the other bullshit mission three weeks ago, when they had to drop five detonators down the throat of an ice serpent to keep from getting devoured. One of the worst planets Wooyoung’s ever been to, excluding this one, and such a waste of good explosives. 

Seonghwa returns from the cockpit nearly the same time that Yunho creaks his way back from the medbay, armed with painkillers and fresh bandages. 

“I’ll start on the traps,” Seonghwa declares, carefully piling the mines into a bag that he can sling over his shoulder. “You take care of Yeosang.” 

Wooyoung accepts the bandages and painkillers from Yunho with a jerky nod. “Make sure they’re evenly spaced,” he can’t help instructing. “And cover the whole canyon entrance. Try to not put them all in one row, but a pattern that won’t be easy to guess—” 

“Wooyoung-ah,” Seonghwa interjects, tone somehow both firm and gentle in a way that only Seonghwa is capable of. “This isn’t my first fight.” 

“I know,” Wooyoung says. “But you don’t usually handle explosives.” Seonghwa is far more deadly with a sword and a rifle. 

“I’ve watched you all plenty of times,” Seonghwa says, fixing his goggles back over his eyes. “I’m fine.” 

With that, he exits the ship, back into the searing daylight. 

“You worry too much,” Yunho says and Wooyoung frowns at him. 

“Someone has to look after you idiots. No one has any sense of self-preservation on this fucking ship.” 

Yunho arches a questioning, condescending eyebrow. “And you do?” 

Of course he doesn’t. Wooyoung has enough self-awareness to know that he’s as reckless and as headstrong as the rest of them because what other option do they have in this galaxy, especially if they want to protect each other? 

He sniffs, imperious. “As the ship medic, I have to nag. It’s part of the job description.” 

Really, they all take turns nagging. Seonghwa hovers like a mother hen. Hongjoong barks orders until everyone stops to take care of themselves. Yunho doles out weapons training and keeps a watchful eye out on missions. San climbs into bunks to cuddle when someone’s having a sleepless night. Yeosang lends a listening ear and a silent, supportive presence. Mingi offers tight, grounding hugs and sometimes awkward, but always sincere expressions of both comfort and admonishment for pushing too far, not respecting the limits of your own mind and body. Jongho disguises concern beneath pointed, teasing insults and sheer intimidation—not above physically threatening you until you eat or sleep or open up about what’s bothering you. 

And Wooyoung somehow has packed all of these methods into one loud, obnoxious presence. He orders them around and cooks for them and patches up their wounds while hurling insults to hide how scared he is of losing them, threatening bodily harm if they don’t listen. 

It’s a coping mechanism, but everyone is too kind to point that out. 

“I know,” Yunho says now with a faint smile. “You have the worst bedside manner I’ve ever seen.” 

“Yah.” Wooyoung takes a threatening step forward. “The only thing you respond to is threats. So stay off your leg for at least ten minutes or I’ll break the other one.” 

Yunho’s smile widens, but he salutes and takes a seat. Mollified, Wooyoung slips into the cockpit where Yeosang is perched in the pilot’s chair—one hand pressed carefully to his wounded stomach and the other flicking switches and turning dials with impressive speed. 

“Mago really is in bad shape,” he says without turning around. “But I think I’ve got enough power diverted to give us a few rounds from the forward guns.” 

“Good job,” Wooyoung says, sinking into the co-pilot’s seat. It has a smear of blood across one armrest, probably from Seonghwa. “Can I change your bandages now?” 

“Do you have painkillers?” 

“Yes.” 

Yeosang holds out a hand. “Those first. Then you can.” 

Wooyoung passes the blue pills over and watches Yeosang swallow them dry. They’ve all probably gotten too used to injury in the past four years but it’s a staple in their line of work—in this new, violent galaxy they’re all forced to endure. 

“Okay, ready,” Yeosang says, closing his eyes. 

Wooyoung kneels in front of the chair, pushing up Yeosang’s loose white shirt. He tries to move quickly, unraveling the old bandages, re-packing the wound with fresh salve-laced gauze to replace the crumbling sealant from earlier. Yeosang winces and grits his teeth, fingers digging into Wooyoung’s shoulder, but he doesn’t cry out. Wooyoung aches the way he always does when any of them are hurt, wishing he had the ability to reach inside of them and take the pain away—heal their wounds with a magic wave of his hand. 

“There,” he says as he ties off the fresh bandages and lowers Yeosang’s shirt. “All done, darling.” 

“Thanks,” Yeosang says with a final squeeze to his shoulder. 

“You should go rest, but I know you’re not going to do that.” 

“You expect me to sleep when we have evil super soldiers coming after us?” Yeosang asks and Wooyoung sighs in defeat, packing up the old bandages to dispose of. 

Through the cockpit window, he can see the tiny figure of Seonghwa at the mouth of the canyon, crouched to bury mines in the sand one by one. 

“I’ll man the guns,” Yeosang says. He makes a shooing motion with one hand. “You go help Seonghwa hyung.” 

Wooyoung sighs again and nods. “Okay, don’t strain yourself too much.” 

“Yes, medic-nim.” 

Wooyoung sticks his tongue out like the mature professional he is and leaves Yeosang to his work. Yunho has miraculously stayed sitting this whole time, which is probably a testament to his exhaustion more than him suddenly developing the ability to follow Wooyoung’s orders. 

“Did you take painkillers?” Wooyoung asks, poking him in the arm. 

Yunho sways with the poke. “Yes.” 

Wooyoung pokes him again. “Do you think we stand a chance?” 

He wants Yunho to say something confident and reassuring like we’re going to whip those Guardians’ asses but Yunho just frowns. “I don’t know.” 

“Great. Good talk.” 

Yunho grabs him before he can stomp away, long fingers curling easily around his wrist. “I do know that we’ll put up one hell of a fight.” 

“Of course,” Wooyoung grumbles. “That was a given.” 

He’d be embarrassed for them if they did something stupid and cowardly like offering immediate surrender. They’re going to die in a storm of fire and explosives, taking at least some of their enemies with them, or they deserve to wander this desert planet in shame for the rest of eternity—unable to pass on into any sort of afterlife. 

Yunho kisses his hand, chapped lips warm and comforting. Wooyoung leans in to press his own kiss to the top of Yunho’s head, then goes to find his goggles, poncho, and the last of their tripwires. 

It’s time to really get to work.

Chapter Text

The waiting is agony—tension that builds and extends like a wire slowly pulling taut, stretched to its limit. They’ve booby trapped the mouth of the canyon so thoroughly that Wooyoung is pretty sure a sneeze could blow someone to pieces. They’ve gotten the guns online, with Yeosang running on painkillers and adrenaline at the controls. Wooyoung has selected his favorite modified rifle and Yunho once again ignored him and Seonghwa’s attempts to get him to rest, hauling himself into a sniper perch on top of the ship. 

The sun sits high overhead, furious and scorching, and Wooyoung can feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck, even with the hood of his poncho pulled up. 

How long have they been waiting? An hour? Two? It feels like it’s been a week since Hongjoong and the others departed, a month since they crashed. Maybe they’ve been on Erimos forever and the rest of his life is a strange hallucination. 

Suddenly, his earpiece crackles. 

“Sensors picking up movement,” Yeosang says. 

Wooyoung straightens out of his sitting position near the ship’s ramp, going to one knee in the hot sand. Seonghwa mirrors him from several meters away, sheltered behind a large rock. His heart thuds in his chest—the beat of it almost painful as his nerves spike. He hates being afraid. Hates how much time he’s wasted being afraid since the war and the brutal end of it. 

“Three Guardians,” Yunho says over their radio. “Approaching fast.” 

Shit. Three? 

Wooyoung lifts his rifle, peering down the scope. He doesn’t have the range that Yunho does, but he can still make out three blurry shapes in the distance. Gradually, they coalesce into distinctive figures. At first glance they seem like men, robed in white uniforms with spiky silver masks over their faces and chains wrapped around their arms, ending in metallic gloves. Only they have to be at least two meters tall, if not even taller—towering at nearly twice Wooyoung’s height. They march like the heat isn’t affecting them at all, with a precision that seems more machine than human. 

Wooyoung sucks in a sharp breath and holds it as they near the mouth of the canyon, tightening his grip on his rifle. 

“One,” he hears Yunho whisper. He grits his teeth, lungs burning. “Two.” He curls one finger over the trigger. “Three.” 

The Guardians hit the minefield. Explosions rock the canyon—strong enough to break rocks loose from the walls, sending them crashing to the ground in a maelstrom of dust. Wooyoung ducks his head to shield his eyes as the wave rolls towards them, washing over the ship. 

“Holy shit,” Seonghwa breathes, drawing Wooyoung’s attention back to the Guardians. 

Who are still advancing. Their uniforms are ripped and seared—white blackened by soot—and one is limping while another has lost part of an arm, but they seem otherwise unscathed. 

Unbelievable. 

“Now, Yeosang,” Seonghwa commands. 

Yeosang opens fire with the ship’s cannons. Several of the energy blasts hit the Guardians dead on, piercing more holes through their torsos. They stagger and Yunho follows up Yeosang’s volley with rounds from the sniper rifle—each a perfect headshot. One Guardian drops to a knee, head bowed, but the others seem unfazed, even as the sniper shots pierce their faceplates. 

Wooyoung curses and starts shooting—a few seconds after Seonghwa. They lay into the Guardians with everything they have: cannons, rifles, and Seonghwa’s shotgun. Nothing has any kind of effect. As they get closer, one of the Guardian’s draws a sleek pistol from a side holster and returns fire. 

Wooyoung drops low to the ground, wincing as one of the bolts grazes his back, tearing a furrow into the fabric of his poncho. Another hits the ground in front of him, spraying sand in his face. He scrambles for safety behind a rock, taking the opportunity to load another charge pack into his rifle and return fire. 

A second Guardian draws a weapon—a long spear that unfolds with a flick of the Guardian’s wrist. The third unslings a mechanical, saw-like cleaver from its back with its good arm. 

Fuck. 

Wooyoung leans out from behind his cover and fires another round, though it seems like a waste of bolts. He might as well be shooting pebbles at them for all the damage it does. The first Guardian returns fire, energy bolts thudding into the rock. One sears across Wooyoung’s upper arm and he swallows down his instinctive shout at the pain. Fucking—he hates being shot. 

“Wooyoung, Seonghwa, stay behind cover,” Yeosang’s voice comes down the radio. “And low to the ground.” 

Wooyoung flattens himself to the sand and still on the other side of the ship, Seonghwa copies him—still clutching his rifle, sword sheathed on his back. 

“Cover your ears,” Yeosang instructs. 

Reluctant to let go of his weapon, Wooyoung still obeys. The ground shakes beneath him as the ship cannons fire, tearing into the Guardians at point blank range. 

This time, the sheer concentrated energy does the trick. One of the Guardians’ crashes to the sand, sparking, and another loses its arm at the shoulder while the third has a hole punched clear through its torso, revealing tangled wires and torn, synthetic flesh.

Yunho takes advantage, firing off a series of powerful sniper shots, while Seonghwa lays into them with the shotgun. 

And they retreat, darting with inhuman speed back towards the mouth of the canyon, dragging the body of their wounded companion behind them. 

“Holy shit,” Wooyoung says in amazement. 

“Well,” Yunho says, voice still annoyingly grim, “that was round one. ” 

“Round one?” Seonghwa says in disbelief. 

Wooyoung drops his head back in the sand, wincing at his stinging arm. 

Well fuck. 

_ _ 

Round two comes a few hours later—as the sun is starting to set and they’ve had time to lick their wounds. Only two of the three Guardians return, but they arrive with a fury they hadn’t displayed before: weapons already drawn, inhuman speed on display. And now there are no more explosives to slow them down, no more rounds from Mago’s cannons. Even the charges in Wooyoung’s rifle are running low. 

Yunho stays on his perch, trying to inflict more damage with the sniper rifle. Seonghwa uses up the last charges in his shotgun and casts it aside, drawing his sword instead. Wooyoung glances at him, waiting for orders, and Seonghwa’s eyes flick to the Guardian with the spear, a silent: you take that one. Wooyoung dips his head in subtle acknowledgement and stands with a furious yell, emptying all of his remaining bolts into the spear Guardian’s head and torso. 

Predictably, it turns towards him. He throws away his rifle in favor of his own sword, pulled from the sheath concealed beneath his poncho. He’s not nearly as good as Seonghwa is, who can even best Yunho and Jongho in duels, but he’s determined to hold his own for as long as he can. 

He’s going to die on his feet, damnit. 

“Come on!” he shouts to the advancing Guardian. 

The Guardian swings its spear—the air whistling with the force of the movement—and Wooyoung raises his sword to block the strike, feeling the impact rattle its way up his arm to the back of his teeth. His feet slide backwards through the shifting sand as the Guardian applies more pressure in an attempt to break through his defense. Snarling, he disengages, skipping back to give himself enough space for a strike of his own, aimed at an exposed patch of metal and skin on the Guardian’s side. The hit lands, sparks fly, and the Guardian doesn’t even flinch. 

Instead, it cocks its head—a predator regarding its prey. Wooyoung isn’t expecting the soft voice that filters through the spiked face plate, low and dangerous. “Jung Wooyoung, member of the Black Pirates. You should surrender.” 

Wooyoung barks a disbelieving laugh. “No.” 

“We will spare your life.” 

“So the empire can torture me? No thanks.” 

The Guardian shrugs, a shockingly human gesture. “Fine. We only need one of you alive.” The tone is casual, certain of victory. 

Wooyoung adjusts his grip on his pommel and attacks again, a swift jab to the Guardian’s stomach. The Guardian moves, a dark blur, and easily blocks the attack with its remaining arm, letting Wooyoung’s blade pierce its uniform and scrape against the hard layer of alloy beneath. Wooyoung wrenches his sword free and scrambles out of the way of the Guardian’s retaliating blow. It seems the Guardian is done toying with him because it follows up its initial slash with another, then another, then another—a steel whirlwind. Wooyoung retreats towards the ship, parrying and dodging until the Guardian manages to land a hit that knocks his sword from his hand. 

Fuck, he thinks and tries to dodge again, but he’s too slow, too human, and the spear punches clean through his shoulder. Pain bursts like an exploding star through his nerves and he thinks someone screams, though he’s not sure if it’s him or one of the others. The Guardian casually lifts him off the ground like a skewered insect, letting his legs kick uselessly in the air. 

“I did offer you a chance,” it says, barely audible above the frantic rasp of Wooyoung’s breath. 

Wooyoung wraps trembling fingers around the smooth metal shaft of the spear as the world swims. It’s a fight to stay conscious and this is it, isn’t it? He’s going to die on a fucking backwater desert planet and his bones will be left for the scavangers while the empire marches on to total galactic domination. 

What a stupid ending. What a waste of a life. 

_ _ 

I think we can make a difference, Hongjoong says to him in their little mess room—maps and blueprints spread out across their dining table and covered in Hongjoong’s distinctive scrawl. They’re both here because nightmares won’t let them sleep and Hongjoong’s exhausted face is sharp with determination. I don’t want to just survive, Wooyoung-ah. 

You really think we can? Wooyoung asks, because he stopped believing in miracles when his world burned and then more and more planets burned after it. 

A year later, everything is still burning. 

Hongjoong traces one of the star charts with a bony finger. I think we can at least do something before the empire kills us. He grins and there’s blood in it to match the blaze of his dark eyes. I want to be as annoying as possible, for as long as we have left. What do you say? 

Wooyoung wants to live for something, die for something. He’s not sure it’s going to be a cause but it might as well be this weird little family he’s ended up a part of. It might as well be Kim Hongjoong with his grand plans and his war-hardened grit—barely a year older than Wooyoung but already a leader in spite of his scars. 

Okay, hyung, Wooyoung says into the quiet hush blanketing them. Let’s make a difference. The hum of the ship’s engines travels through the walls and the floor beneath their feet like a lullaby and Hongjoong’s smile softens into something rare and tender, full of love. 

_ _ 

The Guardian throws Wooyoung back into the sand, pressing a heavy boot to his chest to keep him pinned. Wooyoung wheezes, blood in the back of his mouth, lungs desperate for air as the Guardian crushes him. He can feel the strain in his ribs—how fragile they are, now on the cusp of breaking. The Guardian says nothing as it grinds him ruthlessly beneath its heel. He’s been reduced to an ant trying to weather the assault of a giant. 

A rib cracks. Then another. He doesn’t have enough air to scream so he writhes in a pathetic attempt to escape, trying to throw the Guardian off of him. The Guardian just pushes down harder, steadily collapsing Wooyoung’s chest. Unconsciousness beckons—black creeping in at the corners of his hazy vision. 

Suddenly, the weight disappears. Something knocks the Guardian off of him, leaving him room to wretch into the sand, gasping frantically. 

Who? 

Between him and the Guardian, Yunho rises to his knees with the aid of his rifle, limbs shaking and expression fierce. He must have jumped from the top of the ship, injured leg and all. Crazy bastard. 

“Jeong Yunho,” the Guardian says, calm. “Former cadet at the SEA on Ando, now a bounty hunter and member of the Black Pirates. Surrender for crimes against the imperial crown.” 

Yunho laughs, hauling himself the rest of the way to his feet. He stays between Wooyoung and the Guardian and somehow, the brace on his leg has held. Probably because Wooyoung is a genius who doesn’t make bad equipment, and he is so going to patent that design if they survive this. 

“I’d rather not,” Yunho says, just as calm as the Guardian. “You’re welcome to surrender, though.” 

The sun has nearly set—the pale blue of twilight steadily deepening into proper night—and Wooyoung can feel the temperature rapidly dropping. A distant clash of steel suggests that Seonghwa is still alive, still fighting. Probably, at this rate, he’ll be the last one standing, which is fitting. Everyone underestimates Seonghwa, taken in by his soft, disarming face. 

Wooyoung pushes himself to his hands and knees, battling through the throbbing of his shoulder and the jagged ache in his chest. His sword is still within his reach and he grasps it with unsteady fingers, flinging it in Yunho’s direction. And because Yunho probably has hidden superpowers, he catches it in his free hand without taking his gaze off the Guardian—the pommel smacking hard against his palm. 

Dropping the rifle, he holds the sword at a defensive diagonal across his body, ready to block any incoming blows. “Well?” he asks. “Are you going to surrender?” 

The Guardian takes a threatening step forward, then freezes. Its head tilts again, but there is an alarmed air to the jerky motion this time. Wooyoung doubts it’s them the Guardian seems concerned about, considering the fact that he’s still gasping into the dirt and Yunho can barely stay on his feet, in spite of his steady grip on the sword and the bravado he’s projecting. 

But something has the Guardian spooked because it suddenly steps backwards, disengaging from the fight to turn its attention to the other Guardian still locked in a battle with Seonghwa. Some sort of communication happens, because that Guardian cocks its head like it's listening, then casually darts a hand out, whip-fast, and locks gloved fingers around Seonghwa’s throat. Seonghwa lets out a faint hiss of surprise as the Guardian lifts him off his feet as if he weighs nothing and hurls him in Wooyoung’s direction. 

Wooyoung surges to his knees, bracing himself right before Seonghwa slams into him like a rock. Fire flares in his shoulder again, but he grabs Seonghwa tight and keeps them both upright. To his amazement, the Guardians turn and just … retreat, leaving the canyon behind entirely, moving so fast that none of them have time to react, let alone give chase. 

Seonghwa groans, pulling away from Wooyoung and massaging his bruised throat with his free hand. The other is still miraculously gripping his sword. “What?” he croaks. 

“Yah,” Wooyoung says. “They were winning, why would they leave?” 

“Maybe the emperor summoned them?” Yunho muses. “Urgently?” 

“Somehow, I don’t think we’re going to be that lucky,” Seonghwa mutters. 

Their radios crackle to life with a sharp burst of static, then Yeosang’s voice—high and strained. “You’d better get inside. There’s movement on the sensors. A lot of it.” 

“What?” Seonghwa asks again and of course, that’s when the ground beneath them begins to rumble ominously. 

Yunho drops into a sitting position, letting go of Wooyoung’s sword, and Wooyoung sinks his hands into the sands to try to keep himself stable as the earth bucks and roils like a storm-tossed ocean. The canyon walls tremble, chunks of red stone breaking loose. And a silhouette appears in the sky—so huge that Wooyoung struggles to comprehend it for a moment. It’s bigger than an imperial warship, bigger than a space station, casting such a massive shadow that the whole canyon plunges into sudden, near-absolute darkness. 

Once Wooyoung gets past his initial holy fuck what the fuck, he realizes that the shape is a creature— wings that stretch dozens of meters when fully unfurled, spikes along the length of its spine, twisting horns rising from its reptilian head, a long tail easily the length of a battle cruiser on its own. 

“Is that….” Yunho begins in shock. 

“A fucking dragon,” Seonghwa finishes. 

The dragon roars and the canyon shakes again. Wooyoung feels the echo of the sound in his fucking bones, threatening to rattle his skeleton right out of his skin. He presses bloody hands over his ears and shouts, “I say we get back on the ship!” 

“Let’s go!” Seonghwa shouts back, hauling Wooyoung to his feet by his good arm. Wooyoung pushes through the sting of his bad shoulder to snare Yunho’s hand and together they half-run, half-limp for the relative safety of the ship. 

Yeosang greets them as soon as the doors seal closed, leaning against the navigation table to keep himself upright. His eyes blink wide and scared in his too-pale face. “Was that a fucking dragon?” 

“Yes,” Seonghwa says, checking to make sure the hatch is locked. “That was a fucking dragon.” 

“Fuck.” Yeosang sinks into the nearby comms chair. “No wonder the Guardians bolted.” 

“Guess even Guardians have things they’re afraid of,” Yunho says, hobbling to collapse in the other chair. 

“I don’t blame them,” Wooyung says. “That thing is the size of a fucking moon.” 

“It  must be nocturnal,” Seonghwa muses. 

Now that the fight is temporarily over and they have a moment of respite, Wooyoung takes the opportunity to assess him, donning his metaphorical medic’s hat. He’s got scrapes across one cheek and a nasty cut on his temple; his hair is a matted mess that he’s forced back from his dust-streaked forehead; he’s hugging his left arm close to his side, the sleeve of his dark shirt ripped and blood-stained. Nothing life-threatening, though, and he’s standing up on his own, which really can’t be said for Yeosang or Yunho. 

Speaking of Yunho. 

“Yah!” Wooyoung rounds on him. “I can’t believe you did that!” His cracked ribs give a threatening twinge, reminding him that he probably shouldn’t yell right now. 

“He would have killed you,” Yunho says, not an ounce of regret in his voice. “What else was I supposed to do?” 

Wooyoung has plenty of responses poised on the tip of his tongue. Things like: not jumped off a ship with a broken leg. Things the medic in him is supposed to say. But there is also so much matter-of-fact love in Yunho’s voice and like always, that takes Wooyoung out at the knees. Because he would have done the same without hesitation—never considered another option. And isn’t that both incredible and terrifying? 

So Wooyoung swallows his usual comebacks with a haughty sniff. “At least let me check your brace, you stubborn idiot.” 

He knows that Yunho will hear the thank you hidden beneath his acerbic words. Yunho’s mouth twitches in an answering smile and he nods, carefully stretching out his bad leg. Wooyoung starts forward but Seonghwa catches his arm, frowning. 

“What about you? You’re bleeding, Wooyoung-ah.” 

“We’re all bleeding,” Wooyoung points out. “I’m fine.” 

He’ll deal with his shoulder and ribs later. Maybe he’ll even let Seonghwa fuss over him. For now, he focuses on inspecting Yunho’s brace, feeling along the hinges and metal rods for any worrying cracks or broken parts. 

“It looks intact,” he says when he finds nothing. “I really am a genius.” 

Yunho laughs. “You are.” 

Wooyoung glances up at him in surprise. “You’re actually admitting it?” 

“Just this once,” Yunho says with an airy wave of his hand. “I’m feeling sentimental.” 

“Sap,” Wooyoung says, though he’s secretly pleased. 

It’s not often that Yunho lets his towering walls all the way down—affectionate with them on the surface but never allowing any of them to see the truly messy, vulnerable parts of himself. Not even Mingi. 

Yunho hums. “So will I survive?” 

“You will, because I’m a genius.” Wooyoung tightens a few straps of the brace. “Still, I’m getting you more painkillers and you need to sleep.” 

“Do you think they’ll leave us alone for the night?” Yeosang asks. He’s started to slump over onto the navigation console in a worrying way—eyes fluttering, limbs limp except for the protective hand back over his injured stomach. 

Wooyoung doubts he’ll be able to force him back to the med bay for the night, but hopefully he’ll at least be able to get him horizontal for a few hours. 

“I don’t think they’re going to try anything as long as that dragon is out there,” Seonghwa says. 

As if on cue, another distant roar rumbles ominously through the ship. Wooyoung almost wants to count the seconds, like he would for a thunderstorm. Can you assess how far away a terrifying dragon is based on the time between its roars? 

Seonghwa draws his attention, going into captain mode. It’s different from Hongjoong’s, which mostly skirts the edge of (loving) outright tyranny. Hongjoong is sharp lines and a storm at sea while Seonghwa is bedrock—the quiet, insistent force of a river current, moving you sometimes without you even realizing. 

Now, Seonghwa fixes them all with a firm stare and says, “that means we’re going to sleep. I’ll bring pallets up from storage and we can camp out here to be closer to the cockpit. Yeosang-ah, make sure that all the proximity alarms are set to wake us up if anything happens.” Yeosang salutes. “Yunho-yah, double check comms. The captain took a radio with him, so we want to make sure they can reach us if they need to.” Yunho dips his head. Seonghwa's dark gaze lands on Wooyoung. “Wooyoung-ah, I don’t have to tell you, but let’s make sure everyone is cleaned up and bandaged at least.“

Yeah, that was a given. Wooyoung won’t be able to sleep until he’s made sure that none of them are going to suddenly keel over on him and his own wounds are so fucking annoying that he’s already tempted to inject a numbing agent right into his bloodstream, no matter what the side effects might be. 

“On it,” is all he says to Seonghwa, saluting with his good hand. 

He leaves everyone to their respective duties, hobbling towards the remains of his med bay. The power is still out—everything diverted to the guns and shields—so he’s forced to stop and grab a lantern from the supply closet on the way. It takes three tries to light a match with his still-unsteady hands and he bares his teeth in frustration as the head finally catches, searing his fingertips before he tips the flame to the lantern wick. 

The stairs creak, heralding Seonghwa’s arrival. He’s keeping his arm pressed tight to his side and Wooyoung frowns at him. “Is it broken?” 

“No,” Seonghwa says. 

“Worse?” 

“He cut me,” Seonghwa explains. “Deep.” 

“How deep?” 

Seonghwa winces. “To the bone.” 

Wooyoung moves the lantern closer, illuminating the dark blood still seeping through Seonghwa’s shirt. “Fuck, hyung.” 

Seonghwa attempts to smile at him, but it comes out mostly as a grimace—too much teeth, lips pulled thin, jaw tight with pain. “It’s still better than a break, right?” 

“Depends on if I can stitch it up,” Wooyoung says. “Let’s go.” 

Seonghwa follows him down the last flight of steps and around the curve in the corridor to the med bay. It looks wrong and eerie in the lantern light—shadows stretched too long and dark, like grasping claws, like the creatures that used to haunt the forests of Wooyoung’s homeworld, according to the stories his mother told him at night. It takes a minute of awkward fumbling to locate his supplies. Normally, he could navigate this space blindfolded, but everything shifted in the crash and now he’s adrift. 

Seonghwa doesn’t offer any judgment at least, simply rights one of the overturned chairs and sinks into it with a long, weary sigh. “Take care of yourself first,” he says when Wooyoung finally turns to him. “Please.” 

“Martyr,” Wooyoung mutters, but dumps the supplies on the bed and begins the stupid, agonizing process of getting his poncho and shirt off. 

It takes several pauses and two rejected offers of help from Seonghwa, plus any dignity he might have had left, before he manages to free himself from the treacherous fabric. The lantern light is too shitty to really give him a good look at the damage so he feels along the edges of the hole in his shoulder with careful fingers. The spear went clean through him, grazing his clavicle, left coracoclavicular, and left coracoacromial on its journey. Fortunately, it hasn’t fucked up his mobility too badly and he doesn’t think anything is broken—the entry and exit wound are both clean, just too deep for him to stitch properly. 

He fits his shirt between his teeth, uncapping the disinfectant and pouring it over the torn flesh. The burn makes his eyes water and a shout spill out into the dirty fabric stuffed in his mouth. Seonghwa starts to rise from his chair in alarm but Wooyoung shakes his head, gesturing for him to stay sitting. 

Spitting out the shirt, he goes for the sealant gel next. It will hold everything in place and keep out infection until he can actually perform proper surgery. Or he’s dead. That’s the more likely option. This is probably a waste of gel, he thinks as he makes sure both sides of the wound are completely coated. 

“Okay, now you can help me,” he says to Seonghwa, tossing him the roll of gauze. 

Seonghwa catches it with his good hand, unwinding it as he stands. Actually wrapping Wooyoung’s shoulder quickly turns into a clumsy, shuffling dance with Wooyoung trying to hold his arm in the right position and Seonghwa struggling to maneuver with only one hand. It’s rare for so many of them to end up this battered—the last time was over a year ago, when they got pinned by a Braxis hunting party determined to throw them in an imperial prison. It was Wooyoung’s first experience getting shot and he wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. Zero out of ten, do not repeat. 

“There,” Seonghwa declares, fumbling through tying off the bandages. “I think that’s as good as we’re going to manage.” 

“Thanks,” Wooyoung says, breathing out slowly to combat the ache in his busted ribs. The other brace should be around here somewhere—the one he built after Jongho got caught in a rockslide and nearly shattered his entire rib cage. It took ages to get the alignment right but it’s meant to provide support without restricting breathing, since pneumonia on top of everything else is no one’s idea of a good time. 

He rummages through two cabinets and the storage closet before he finds it beneath the spare bed, flown from its usual resting place in the crash. 

“Hyung—” he starts to say but Seonghwa is there—bloody fingers slick against the stiff black leather as he grasps one side of the brace. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, helping Wooyoung secure it on his torso. Wooyoung does up the laces, testing his breathing and that stupid, pulsing pain. 

“Okay, good,” he says when he feels the sharpness subside enough to be bearable. “Now you.” 

Seonghwa gives him a wan, unsteady smile. “I’m—” 

“You already told me he cut you to the bone, don’t you dare say you’re fine. Hold out your arms, I’m gonna get your coat and shirt off.” 

Seonghwa sighs, but obeys. Wooyoung is careful as he eases the stained, torn fabric away from the area of the wound. “I bet you didn’t expect this much excitement when you decided to join the crew,” he says to keep Seonghwa distracted. 

“No,” Seonghwa admits with a faint, breathy laugh. “Though I should have. Hongjoong always invites trouble. Attracts others who are the same way.” 

Wooyoung glances up at him—thrown into silhouette by the flickering lantern light, only a diagonal strip of his regal face illuminated. He’s always been a bit of an enigma, their first mate. A study in contradictions. Grew up on a farm somewhere in the Outer Wilds, but with a father who taught him to fight better than even a top SEA cadet. Gentle, but with an underlayer of steel that commands respect. Compassionate, but more pragmatic than even their fierce captain and his bloody heart. 

All of them have their secrets, their lives that they buried and don’t want to talk about. People that they once were and are no longer—those selves erased by war and tragedy. But Wooyoung can trace the threads back to origins that make sense for the others. Ando for Mingi and Yunho: cadets at a revered academy. Samhan for San: a wealthy, beautiful, but wild world. Somni for Hongjoong: towering, crumbling cities, forging their citizens in fire. Salseom for Jongho: the rumored son of a once-powerful chaebol mining family. 

But Seonghwa? Wooyoung can’t find any kind of origin point that makes sense. Gets the distinct impression that he lies more than any of them, lies every time he talks about his past. Wooyoung doesn’t know why because Seonghwa also loves them—openly, easily, painfully. 

And yet…. 

“Let’s get you stitched up,” he says, depositing Seonghwa’s ruined clothes next to his. 

“Yay,” Seonghwa says—a little, ridiculous cheer that startles a bark of laughter out of Wooyoung, which was probably Seonghwa’s goal. 

Wooyoung pulls up another chair, med kit balanced in his lap, and drags the lantern closer so that he can see the shape of Seonghwa’s wound—a long furrow along the inside of his arm from the shoulder all the way through the elbow to the middle of the forearm. White bone gleams amidst the continuous bubble of red and Wooyoung sucks at his teeth in wordless alarm. 

“They definitely hit hard,” Seonghwa says with a smile that’s far more grimace, but he remains unflinching as Wooyoung goes about his work, disinfecting, cleaning, and then stitching the cut. 

“I asked Yunho this,” Wooyoung says to distract him from the pain, from the strange sensation of thread tugging a torn skin. “But do you think we’re gonna make it?” 

Seonghwa gives a thoughtful hum, staring at the flickering lantern resting next to them. “I want to say yes.” 

“But it would be a lie?” Wooyoung guesses. 

Seonghwa glances back at him, expression fierce. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure it isn’t.” 

Wooyoung ties off the last stitch and unrolls the gauze, winding it carefully over the sewn gash. “Let’s just make sure to die on our feet, hyung,” he says, not wanting Seonghwa to actually try to turn himself into a martyr. They go out together, that’s what Wooyoung has always believed. 

Seonghwa huffs a sad laugh. “I think we can manage that, at least.”

Wooyoung squeezes his good hand tight. 

_ _ 

Back in the cabin, Yunho has already managed to bring the pallets up from their sleeping quarters and laid them out on the open floor near the nav table. Seonghwa glares at him, disapproving, but doesn’t bother with a verbal lecture because Yeosang is already passed out on one of them, curled half into Yunho’s lap while Yunho pets down his back in slow, soothing strokes. 

“Are his bandages okay?” Wooyoung whispers in worry, kneeling next to them. 

“I think they’ll hold until the morning,” Yunho whispers in reply. “Let him rest.” 

“You too,” Wooyoung insists, running his thumb gently across the prominent bag under Yunho’s eye—skin bruised dark with exhaustion. “Come on, Yunho-yah.” 

Together, they shift Yeosang fully onto the pallet, laying him on his side. He makes a soft grunt of protest, but doesn’t wake, allowing Wooyoung to pull the blanket over him and drape a protective arm across his ribs. Yunho settles against Yeosang’s back, cradling him, and also reaching over to touch Wooyoung too. Wooyoung feels Seonghwa press against his own back in turn—Seonghwa’s mouth against his shoulder, Seonghwa’s wounded arm finding purchase on the stiff brace around Wooyoung’s middle. 

Outside their cocoon of safety, the dragon shakes the canyons again, all the way down to their foundations. The bulkheads of the ship creak and groan along with the earthquake—a strained symphony. What does it eat, Wooyoung wonders. What could possibly satisfy something that big? 

“Sleep, Wooyoung-ah,” Seonghwa whispers in his ear, and though he could hear the restless churn of Wooyoung thoughts. 

Wooyoung sighs. Lets the weariness weighing down his bones pull him into darkness. 

_ _ 

Have you heard anything?  Yeosang asks him in the quiet hush of a remote spaceport, one month after Braxis declared its victory and the war ended with the dawn of a new empire. From home? 

Home. Wooyoung’s thought about going back, but he’s not sure he could bear to see the ruin of it—his beautiful city reduced to rubble, bodies piled in the streets. 

No, he says now. He’s tried all the refugee networks, all the scattered channels full of people looking for lost and displaced loved ones. He’s checked the bulletins in every port they dock at, but nothing. Mother, father, two brothers—all gone. They’re dead, he tells himself, and the agony of that is becoming easier to bear. 

Me neither, Yeosang says, drawing his knees into his chest. The ship sleeps behind them, lights dark, and above them the stars scatter in unfamiliar patterns across a black sky. They’re on the other side of the galaxy now—different constellations than the ones Wooyoung grew up under. 

We have to let them go, he says to Yeosang, reaching out to take his hand. This is our family now, Yeosang-ah. 

Their sharp-tongued captain, his gentle first mate. Yunho with his deadly hands and warm eyes. Mingi and his grumbly affection for them, often projected into love for their ship. Jongho who can change personas like he’s trying on different clothes, but is somehow always honest. And San—beautiful, optimistic San whom Wooyoung thinks they’re both coming to love more than they should. 

Though, really, Wooyoung has come to love them all. It is a dangerous thing, in their shifting world, to care enough to die for something. 

But…. 

You’re right, Yeosang says, gripping Wooyoung’s hand tight. I’m glad. That I found you again. That we’re not alone. 

Me too, Wooyoung says. We’re not alone. 

And as if summoned, Seonghwa appears at the top of the ramp—hazy light spilling out around him from the open door. 

You two, he says with that soft smile of his, come inside. It’s freezing out there. 

Wooyoung registers the cold, then, seeping through the protective layers of his clothing. Soon, his teeth will start chattering. 

Keeping hold of Yeosang’s hand, Wooyoung hauls them both to their feet, heading towards the warmth of the ship. 

_ _ 

Wooyoung wakes for two reasons: 1) He’s cold—body heat missing from Seonghwa’s skin against his and 2) someone is moving around the ship with a series of faint clanks, as though they’re gathering supplies. Wooyoung cracks open his eyes, blinking to adjust to the dimness of the cabin. The world is starting to lighten beyond the cockpit viewport, shadows fading from black to washed-out blue, but they’re still in the early, pre-dawn hours. 

And Seonghwa is bent over the nav table, carefully scribbling a note on a piece of parchment. 

“What are you doing?” Wooyoung croaks. 

Seonghwa startles. He’s fully dressed—new poncho, sword at his hip, rifle across his back, goggles on his forehead. That and the guilt on his face tell Wooyoung a story that he doesn’t like. 

“Are you leaving?” he asks, pushing himself into a sitting position, fury rising in his chest. 

Seonghwa winces. “Wooyoung-ah—” 

“What the fuck?” Wooyoung snarls, loud enough to startle Yunho into waking. Poor Yeosang remains dead to the world, burrowed beneath the blankets. 

“‘S going on?” Yunho slurs, squinting at them. 

“Seonghwa’s trying to leave us behind,” Wooyoung snaps. 

Yunho jerks to full alertness, sitting up so fast that his leg brace creaks in protest. “What?” 

Seonghwa closes his eyes, jaw tense. “I’m going to distract them. Give the others long enough to get back.”

“You’re going to die,” Wooyoung counters. He wobbles to his feet, anger dulling the pain of his ribs and shoulder. “You’re leaving us to go die.” 

“Better one than all of us,” Seonghwa insists. 

“Bullshit,” Yunho says, eyes hard. 

Seonghwa’s jaw ticks. Gloved fingers twitch at his sides. “Just let me do this. Please.” 

Wooyoung wants to punch him. “No. We do this together. That’s what we agreed. You don’t get to be a fucking martyr, hyung. Not on my watch.” He will tie Seonghwa to one of the nearby chairs if that’s what it takes, and he’s sure that Yunho would help him. 

Yunho presents an icy contrast to Wooyoung’s fire. “What aren’t you telling us?” he asks. Wooyoung is expecting some kind of denial but Seonghwa sways like he’s been shot. Yunho sits up further, pressing. “What are you keeping from us, hyung?” 

“I can’t,” Seonghwa says, pained. 

Wooyoung lurches forward, grabbing a fistful of Seonghwa’s poncho so he can shake him. “Stop it. Enough with the secrets. You can’t trust us? Even after all this time?” 

Even after everything they’ve been through together? The blood they’ve shed, the sacrifices they’ve made, the nights they’ve held each other in the aftermath of nightmares, the grief they’ve weathered—a collective maelstrom of loss. Wooyoung thinks of Seonghwa pressing tea into his shaking hands; of Seonghwa holding Hongjoong through one of his episodes, humming to him as Hongjoong tried to flee from imaginary horrors; of Seonghwa bartering away his favorite hat just to get them some extra food when their stores were running low; of Seonghwa quietly checking up on each of them after a hard job, a comforting, steady presence. 

Has it all meant nothing? 

“It’s not that simple,” Seonghwa says. “It’s not about trust.” 

“What then?” Yunho asks, finally hauling himself to his feet. Yeosang continues to sleep and Yunho steps in front of him, as though trying to shield him from this unfolding argument. 

“To protect you.” Seonghwa glances at them both with a terrible mixture of love and desperation. “I’ve only ever wanted to protect all of you.” 

“From what?” Wooyoung demands. 

Seonghwa remains silent, but there are obvious signs of the war happening inside of him: hands curling into his fists, teeth clenching, brow furrowing. He seems to be standing on some kind of fulcrum and Wooyoung decides to push. 

“Hyung,” he half-begs, giving Seonghwa another, more gentle shake. 

Seonghwa opens his eyes. Licks his lips. “What do you know of the Samhan royals?” 

The question throws Wooyoung off guard. “Not much.” Just that they were the powerful rulers of a powerful planet—respected and feared in equal measure, until Braxis came with their technology and ground them to dust. 

“They were very secretive,” Yunho answers, because Ando was much closer to Samhan than Wooyoung’s homeworld. And San has never been very forthcoming, for obvious reasons. “They always kept themselves masked in public. No one even knew the birth names of the royal heirs, only public codenames provided by the monarchy.” Yunho folds his arms over his chest, peering at Seonghwa with an assessing gaze. “Then there were the rumors.” 

“What kind of rumors?” Wooyoung asks. 

“That they had special abilities. That they performed human experimentation and unlocked secrets that no one else had discovered, about Dust and other aspects of the cosmos. That they were immortal. That they had a vault of powerful artifacts that could do impossible things.” 

“That all sounds like myths,” Wooyoung says, though there is a pinprick of real fear in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps because Seonghwa hasn’t moved, still looking wounded. “Stuff from storybooks.” 

“They’re true,” Seonghwa whispers. His mouth twists in a wry smile. “Well, except for the immortality part.” 

Wooyoung swallows, head spinning. “You’re not from a farm in the Outer Wilds, are you?” 

He always suspected, of course, but it’s another thing to know for certain. A complicated tangle of emotions roils through him, turning his thoughts to a formless mess. Quiet, often unassuming Seonghwa is royalty? And not just any royalty… Samhan royalty? 

“No,” Seonghwa sighs. “I’m not.” He takes a deep breath, shoulders straightening. Wooyoung drops his hand as a strange, regal mask settles over Seonghwa’s features that he instantly hates. “I am the second son of the twenty-seventh king of Samhan and auxiliary heir to the throne.” 

Yunho crosses his arms over his chest, posture tense and defensive—the kind he only displays when he doesn’t trust someone or he’s expecting a fight. Or both. It hurts to see it directed at Seonghwa. “I thought the royal family died in the war.” 

Seonghwa’s mask breaks, leaving behind a sickened, guilty expression. “I was supposed to.” 

“What?” Wooyoung says in alarm. 

Seonghwa regards him with awful sadness. “My family’s secrets are too powerful to fall into the hands of invaders. My father remained on Samhan to make sure the vaults were destroyed. My brother and I had a singular mission: to take what couldn’t be destroyed and hide it in the farthest reaches of the galaxy. Then to…end our lives. Quietly. Where no one could find our bodies.” 

“What?” Wooyoung repeats. 

Seonghwa was supposed to go commit suicide? That sounds barbaric, even in the middle of a war. And for a father to ask that of his sons? Wooyoung thinks of his own father’s warm hands and gentle smile. Of his father telling him to run, to get to safety, clearing a path for him and Yeosang to reach the refugee ships. 

He cannot imagine his father ever demanding that he die. 

“It was necessary,” Seonghwa says. He’s starting to tremble. “It’s too dangerous for us to fall into imperial hands. They cannot learn my family’s secrets. They would be unstoppable. I was supposed to do my duty.” The fingers of one hand dig into the opposite arm, scraping against the rough fabric of Seonghwa’s sleeve. “But then I…I met Hongjoong, and then all of you and I couldn’t—” His voice breaks and he sucks in a frantic, wet breath, struggling to compose himself. 

Wooyoung has never seen him like this and it’s horrible. He’s still caught between the instinctive need to soothe his distress and the desire to punch him for thinking he could just walk off and leave them. 

“But I cannot be taken alive,” Seonghwa continues after a moment, steady again. Mask almost back in place. “I cannot. So, please, let me go do my duty. I need to rectify my mistake.” 

“Yah,” Wooyoung grabs him again. “Park Seonghwa, staying alive is not a mistake.” 

“It is,” Seonghwa argues. “For me, it is. It was never supposed to go this far. I was never supposed to—” his face twists. 

Love you, Wooyoung thinks he was going to say. 

“Well you do.” He moves his good hand up to cup the side of Seonghwa’s face, feeling the clammy warmth of his skin. Seonghwa flinches but doesn’t pull away. “And we love you. So I’ll repeat: you don’t get to be a fucking martyr, okay?” He glances at Yunho, still stone-faced. “Back me up here, Yunho-yah.” 

Seonghwa shakes his head before Yunho can speak, dislodging Wooyoung’s hand. “Don’t you get it? This is bigger than us. Than me. I need to—” 

“Shut up.” It’s not Yunho’s voice but Yeosang’s, still slightly muffled by the blankets. Wooyoung didn’t notice that he was awake. 

“Yeosang-ah….” He’s not sure if he’s asking for support or trying to reprimand Yeosang for exerting himself too much yet again. 

Either way, Yeosang ignores him and extracts himself from the blankets with a low groan, arm braced back over his stomach as he staggers upright. His face is several shades too pale, but his eyes burn.

“Shut up,” he repeats, low and firm. “Enough.” 

“Yeosang—” Seonghwa says this time, aching. 

“It doesn’t matter who you were,” Yeosang continues. “It doesn’t matter who any of us were. You’re ours now, okay? Not some dead throne’s.” He reaches Wooyoung’s side and steadies himself with a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder. “So stop it. We do this together. If you can’t be taken alive, then fine. We’ll die together too.” 

Seonghwa’s eyes are wet. He sucks in a hiccuping breath and reaches up to stroke Wooyoung’s face, then Yeosang’s, leaning forward so that he can touch his forehead to theirs. “Damn you all,” he whispers. “Fine.” 

“Yunho-yah, get over here,” Wooyoung says. “Family moment.” 

Yunho sighs but drapes himself over their backs, managing to engulf them all in his ridiculously long arms. They stay huddled together, letting the minutes slip away as the sun rises, and Wooyoung clings to this peace, to their warmth around him. 

If this is the last time he gets to hold them, then fine—he’s going to wring as much strength from it as he can. 

It’s Yunho who pulls away first. “The sun’s coming up,” he says. “They’ll be back.” 

Seonghwa wipes at his face with his good hand and draws back, spine straight. Looking at him, Wooyoung’s honestly amazed he never pegged him for royalty sooner. He just didn’t think that former royalty would ever willingly scrub down the whole galley floor after San blew up a pot of soup in a disastrous cooking experiment. 

“Right,” Seonghwa says. “What have we got left to throw at them?” 

“Our swords?” Yunho says with a grimace. “A few rounds of ammunition.” 

“And that’s it?” 

“Mago’s pretty much out of juice,” Yeosang says, still leaning on Wooyoung. 

Seonghwa’s mouth presses into a thin line. “So that’s it.” 

“That’s it,” Yunho confirms. 

Seonghwa jerks his head in a sharp nod. “Alright. Then we should draw them away from the ship. Give the others time to get back. If we’re killed, we don’t want Mago falling into their hands.” 

Wooyoung wishes he could say that they’ve been in worse scrapes than this. That of course they’ll find a way out alive, like they always do. But he can’t see the path to victory this time. The others could still be hours out and the Guardians are literal super-humans, able to crush them like errant flies. Most likely, they were being toyed with yesterday and now they’re going to be swiftly and efficiently dispatched. 

“Agreed,” Yunho says, Planning Face back on. He limps to the nav table and uses the auxiliary power to pull up the map of the canyons from Jongho’s scouting flier. 

“The trading outpost is here,” he says, tapping a bright spot to the south. “So we should head in the opposite direction.” He moves his hand east, to a series of narrow, maze-like canyons that look like scraggly tributaries branching off from a larger river. “We might be about to draw them out here.” 

“Did anyone see the direction the dragon came from?” Seonghwa asks, joining Yunho. 

“East,” Yeosang says grimly. 

“So we draw them towards the dragon?” Seonghwa frowns at the map. 

Yunho shrugs. “Maybe the dragon will take care of them.” 

“And roast us, too, in the process.” 

“Hey,” Wooyoung says, “I’d rather be killed by a dragon than a Guardian. At least a dragon is cool.” 

“Seconding,” Yeosang says, flopping a hand. “I vote for death by dragon.” 

If Hongjoong was here, he’d snap at them that this isn’t a democracy, but Seonghwa has always been more of a pushover. Another reason Wooyoung never imagined he could be a prince. 

“Fine,” Seonghwa sighs. “Death by dragon, it is.” 

Yeosang gives a silly little cheer, then winces and sags against Wooyoung. 

“Yah, let me take care of you,” Wooyoung says in alarm. They’ve neglected Yeosang’s wound for too long and, shit, what if it’s infected? 

“We’ll get the supplies,” Yunho says.

“It’s really fine,” Yeosang mumbles in protest as Wooyoung guides him to the ever-trusty comms chair and gently pushes him into it. “We’ll be dead in a few hours anyway.” 

“Sure,” Wooyoung agrees, determined to ignore any emotions his brain might want him to experience about that impending doom. “But I still want to do this.” 

Yeosang hums, leaning back as Wooyoung opens his shirt. Unwinds the old bandages. Fights the urge to press a kiss to Yeosang’s wrist. To say all the words tangling up at the back of his throat. 

It’s Yeosang who speaks first. “San is going to be furious at us.” 

Gods, Wooyoung can’t think about San. “They all will. But they’ll be alive.” 

“Yeah,” Yeosang murmurs. “I’d rather they be alive.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “Better alive.” 

“You could stay with the ship,” Wooyoung blurts, because, dammit, he has to try. “Let the others know what— ow!” 

Yeosang pulls at his hair again, hard enough to jerk his head to the side. “Shut up.” His voice is a mild contrast to the violence of his actions. “Don’t you dare.” 

“Can you blame me?” Wooyoung grumbles. 

“You are not leaving me behind,” Yeosang says. “I don’t want to leave San, or any of the others, but I’m not going to sit in this ship and let you go off to a cool death by a moon-sized dragon without me, okay?” 

“Okay,” Wooyoung says, holding up placating hands. 

Mollified, Yeosang sits still for the remainder of the bandage-changing process. Wooyoung is relieved to see the wound isn’t infected—actually seems to be healing well, spurred on by the sana he made Yeosang drink yesterday. Wow. Yesterday. The past twenty-four hours have lasted at least a decade, and he’s speaking as someone who has lived through a whole war. 

Behind them, Seonghwa and Yunho move around the cabin, packing supplies. Seonghwa bends back over the discarded parchment on the navigation table, scrawling a different goodbye message now. Is he apologizing? Justifying? 

That’s how Wooyoung would open: I’m so sorry. Followed by: but you’ll get to live, can you blame me for wanting that? 

San would definitely still punch him and Wooyoung would let him, in this one instance. 

“We’re ready,” Yunho says, poncho on, pack secured across his shoulders, hood pulled up to shield his face. He’s armed himself with a sword and a rifle, but he’s being careful with the weight he puts on his broken leg. 

“So are we,” Wooyoung says. “Just one last round of painkillers.” 

He passes out the bright-colored pills, which Seonghwa, Yunho, and Yeosang all swallow dry. Seonghwa helps Yeosang to his feet and hands him a pistol that Yeosang holsters at his hip. Beyond the viewport, the sun has climbed higher into the sky, peeking over the top of the canyons—casting the walls in deep, burnished reds and catching the mineral strains on fire, making them glow. 

“We should power Mago down,” Yeosang says, stumbling to the cockpit and pausing to collect a spare poncho on the way. He braces himself against the pilot’s chair as he bends over the controls. 

“What’s wrong?” Wooyoung asks when Yeosang freezes with his hand outstretched, halfway to the control panel. 

“Movement on the sensors,” Yeosang murmurs, peering at the display. “At the mouth of the canyon.” 

“Fuck,” Wooyoung hisses. “Is it them?” 

“Already?” Seonghwa asks in dismay. 

The radio crackles, static bursting through the speakers. “It’s us,” comes Hongjoong’s voice. “Don’t shoot.” 

Oh. Oh. 

Seonghwa sags against the nav table and Yeosang slumps into the pilot’s chair while Yunho just closes his eyes, a storm on his face. Wooyoung presses a hand to his chest, crashing between weak-kneed relief and piercing terror. 

Yeosang gathers himself enough to flip a switch and pick up the cockpit radio. “Copy, captain. We’re standing by.” 

“How mad do you think they’re going to be?” Yunho asks, now pitching towards amusement as he glances around at their myriad of bandages, braces, cuts, and scrapes. 

“Furious,” Seonghwa says. “Hongjoong is probably going to kill us.” 

Wooyoung snorts. “I think we can still take him.” 

Seonghwa arches a dubious eyebrow at him. “Fine, Yunho can still take him.” 

Yunho shakes his head, limping to the door controls. A blast of hot air sweeps through the cabin as soon as the doors slide open and a few seconds later, Jongho crosses the threshold, brushing sand from the shoulders of his poncho. San and Mingi follow right behind him, with Hongjoong bringing up the rear. They look tired, skin-chapped from the sun, but otherwise unharmed and Wooyoung exhales in quiet relief. 

“Sorry it took us so long,” Hongjoong says, pushing his hood back and taking off his goggles. “There was a fucking dragon the size of a moon camping out in the canyons all night—” He trails off as he finally takes them in, gaze darting from Seonghwa’s arm to Wooyoung’s shoulder and rib brace to Yeosang still sitting in the pilot’s chair to the fresh gash near Yunho’s temple. “What the fuck happened to you?” 

San, Mingi, and Jongho’s attention snaps to them, as well, and Wooyoung tries to stand taller, to look okay and not about five seconds from collapse. They were about to walk multiple kilometers to death by a fucking dragon, he’s got this. He’s fine. 

“Long story,” Seonghwa says.  He’s stopped leaning on the nav table, trying to project an air of fine, as well. 

Hongjoong’s face is murderous, which means they’ve really scared him. “Start telling it. Now.” 

“Guardians,” Yunho rasps and Mingi jerks in alarm. Right, he was on Ando too. He saw the disappearances, heard about the experimentation. “Came after us.” 

“You knew they would come,” Mingi says, accusing. 

“Yes,” Yunho says, with no guilt on his face. 

Hongjoong’s expression darkens another degree. San makes a wounded, betrayed noise that cuts deep. Jongho has gone stoic—features hardened and withdrawn. 

“What?” Hongjoong says, low and threatening. “You knew another threat was coming? And you let us leave?” 

Wooyoung feels akin to an errant toddler right now, but Yunho still isn’t backing down. Hongjoong has rarely been able to intimidate him, though their diminutive captain always tries. 

“Yes. We needed the supplies.” 

“And better only four of us,” Seonghwa chimes in softly. “Than the whole crew.” 

San lets out another horrified sound. He points at Yunho’s pack and rifle. “Were you leaving?” 

“Yes.” Yeosang this time—voice like steel even though he’s remained sitting. San looks like they’ve just shot him and fuck, it’s awful. Mingi stalks to Yunho’s side and claps a hand on his shoulder, giving him a rough shake. 

“What the fuck?” he asks, a mixture of fury and fear. “You were going to leave us behind?”

Jongho bows his head. Honjoong just stares at Seonghwa like he can’t comprehend the information they’ve just given him. Can’t comprehend a world where any of them would make a sacrifice like this. Can’t comprehend a galaxy without Seonghwa in it—a timeline where Seonghwa isn’t by his side, their steady first mate. 

Yunho lets out a tired breath, shifting to look at Mingi with infinite sadness and infinite love. “Of course I was, if it meant you staying alive.” 

“Bastard,” Mingi snaps, shaking Yunho again. “Asshole, that’s not what we promised.” 

“I know,” Yunho whispers. “I know, Mingi-yah.” 

“I should kill you all,” Hongjoong says, small hands tightened into trembling fists at his sides. 

“We were gonna go out via the dragon,” Wooyoung blurts, because he’s an idiot. “So at least it would have been cool.” 

Suddenly, San is in front of him and rough palms are cupping his cheeks. “Wooyoung-ah,” San says, like he’s heartbroken, like he wants to bury a fist in Wooyoung’s stomach repeatedly. 

“Ah,” Wooyoung says. “Hypocrite. Like you wouldn’t have done the same.” 

Because they’re all fucking martyrs at the end of the day, aren’t they? At least for each other. 

San shakes his head, but doesn’t offer any sort of verbal denial because Wooyoung is right. Instead, he just leans in and presses a fierce kiss to Wooyoung’s cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Wooyoung curls a hand in the dusty fabric of his poncho, suddenly so glad that he didn’t have to say goodbye. That they get more time for whatever is blooming between them. 

San lets him go with another kiss, then darts over to give Yeosang the same treatment while Jongho lifts his head again. “I’m glad we got here in time,” is all he says, but there are so many other words layered underneath. 

I’m glad you’re safe and I would never have forgiven you if you’d died and probably idiot hyungs because that is usually Jongho’s sentiment towards them and he’s usually right. 

“Are they still out there?” Hongjoong asks, back in captain mode—all his defensive walls in place. “Are they going to come back?” 

“Most likely,” Seonghwa says. Then shakes his head. “They’re…unlike anything I’ve ever seen, Hongjoong-ah. Practically indestructible.” 

“Are they machines?” Jongho asks. 

“Machines,” Yunho says, “and men. Combined.” 

“Shit,” Mingi breathes. “So they really were experimenting back on Ando?” 

“Yeah. And it looks like they succeeded.” 

Mingi falls silent, looking disturbed, and tightens his grip on Yunho, seemingly subconsciously. Maybe he’s somewhere in the past, remembering the summons that Yunho received—the horror that almost was. 

Wooyoung finally decides to stop being stubborn and allows himself to take a seat, aware of San’s hawk eyes on him and making sure not to wince when his ribs twinge. “We threw everything we had at them. Wasn’t enough.” 

“What was your next plan?” 

Seonghwa shifts, subtly grabbing the parchment still on the nav table—the goodbye letter. He pockets it just as subtly, hiding it in his belt beneath the cover of his poncho. “We were going to head into the canyons,” he says to Hongjoong. “We didn’t want them to get the ship and we were hoping the dragon might be able to help us.” 

Hongjoong’s eyebrows disappear beneath his bangs. “You were going towards the dragon?” 

Yeosang shrugs. “Like we said, death by dragon is way cooler. And maybe we take out the Guardians, too, and then the ship is safe.” 

“They knew who we were,” Yunho chimes in. “Knew we were the Black Pirates.” 

San lets out a low whistle. “So we really have to kill them.” 

“We really do,” Yunho agrees. 

“We managed to take out one,” Seonghwa says. “But there are two left. Presuming they haven’t repaired the third.” 

“And we don’t have anything left?” Hongjoong asks, finally shrugging off his heavy pack and setting it on the floor with a loud thunk. 

Seonghwa shakes his head. “We used everything. Only stopped one of them.” 

“Fuck,” Hongjoong mutters, drifting to the nav table to stand next to Seonghwa. He squints down at the map of the surrounding area. “Using the dragon may not be a bad idea.” 

“What?” Jongho asks in alarm. 

Hongjoong shrugs. “It’s got firepower, which we don’t.” 

“Sure, but we can’t exactly go up and ask it to please only fry the Guardians,” Jongho fires back. 

Hongjoong braces gloved hands against the sides of the table, expression contemplative. “We could point it in the right direction. Do we know where the Guardian ship is?” 

“To the south, I think,” Yunho says, joining them. Mingi stubbornly follows, still hovering close. “Around here.” He points to another section of wider canyons on the map. “The dragon came from the east.” He draws a line with his finger. 

Hongjoong nods. “So we just need to get its attention and aim it at the Guardians.” 

“Without getting killed in the process,” Jongho says. 

A hum of agreement from Hongjoong. “And we don’t have any explosives left?” 

Yunho shakes his head. “Nothing powerful enough.” 

“Could we make something?” 

“Yah,” San says, placing a shielding hand on one of the bulkheads, “you’re not cannibalizing Mago.” 

“Of course not,” Hongjoong says. “We just got parts to repair her.” 

“We could use Dust from the fuel reserves,” Yunho suggests. “We just need an incendiary agent.” 

Wooyoung racks his brain, flipping through a mental catalog of their supplies. Refined Dust is much more stable than the mineral in its raw form, but it can be made to go boom if you mix it with the right chemicals…. 

“The disinfectant in the med bay,” he says with a snap of his fingers. “It has ethanol in it. It’ll set off the Dust.” 

“Good,” Hongjoong says. “Then take as much as you can spare and package it up. How long do you think we have before the Guardians come back?” 

Seonghwa glances out the viewport at the sun now high in the sky. “Not long. An hour at the most, maybe?” 

Hongjoong accepts this with a nod, but Jongho’s frown deepens. “That would never be enough time. We have to find the dragon first and that could take half a day, if not longer. Then plant the explosives, then draw the Guardians towards it.” 

“We could hold them off—” San starts. 

“With what?” Jongho cuts over him. “We’re out of firepower. Four of us are injured. We would never be able to last long enough.” 

He’s right, damn it, just like he usually is. Hongjoong lets out an explosive, frustrated sigh, glaring down at the map as though it will suddenly develop the ability to talk and tell them exactly how to get out of this. 

“We could abandon the ship,” Yeosang suggests and weathers twin glares from San and Mingi. “Blow it up. Hide out in the trading outpost until we can get transport off-planet.” 

“Yah,” Mingi says at the same time Jongho points out, “they’d run us down before we made it to the outpost. Same problem.” 

“And I don’t want to bring the empire down on their heads,” Hongjoong adds. 

“There’s one other option,” Seonghwa says, grim determination hardening his features. 

It’s the look he gets when he’s about to propose a plan so harebrained that it will make Hongjoong furious at him. It’s not often that Seonghwa is the producer of their craziest ideas, but he definitely has hidden depths. And Wooyoung has a terrible, sinking suspicion about what he’s going to do. 

“What option?” Hongjoong asks, squinting at him with intense suspicion. 

“It’s too difficult to explain and we don’t have the time,” Seonghwa says. Yep, he’s absolutely going to do something stupid that might get him killed and Wooyoung isn’t sure how to stop him because they are horrifically out of options. “You just have to trust me.” 

He looks only at Hongjoong, gaze beseeching. Hoongjoong’s frown pulls the rest of his face into taut lines. Wooyoung can easily imagine what he wants to ask: will this mean losing you? But he doesn’t. He’s their captain and personal feelings can’t matter when their backs are against the wall. 

“I trust you,” he says, hoarse like the admission pains him. “What do you need?” 

“Dust,” Seonghwa says. “And my sword.” 

“I’ll get the Dust,” Jongho says and marches from the main cabin before anyone can protest. 

Seonghwa breathes out—slow and steadying. “Yunho, Yeosang, Wooyoung, you should stay with the ship. In fact, most of you can stay—” 

“No,” Hongjoong snaps at the same time Wooyoung says, “like hell.” 

Seonghwa gives him an exasperated glance. “You’re injured.” Then to Hongjoong. “And you’re the captain.” 

“That’s why I’m coming,” Hongjoong says, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t let my crew go into battle alone. You didn’t give me a choice last time. You’re not leaving me behind again.” 

“And we made a promise,” Wooyoung says. 

He doesn’t care how much his ribs and arms hurt, or how exhausted he is. All he can see is Seonghwa in the dawn light, prepared to leave them all behind. Prepared to die, like he should have long ago. Wooyoung loves him—fiercely, painfully—and he’s not going to let him do this alone. 

“That was before,” Seonghwa argues but without much strength behind the words. 

“It still stands,” Wooyoung insists. “And if anything goes wrong, you’ll need a medic.” 

Seonghwa closes his eyes, expression tired. Resigned. “All right,” he says. “Together.” 

_ _ 

They waste a little more precious time arguing, but eventually it’s decided that Hongjoong, Wooyoung, and San will accompany Seonghwa into the canyons while Mingi, Yunho, Yeosang, and Jongho stay with the ship. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Yeosang orders him, holding him tight enough that pain sparks through his injuries. Wooyoung hears the plea lurking underneath Yeosang’s bravado: come back to me, you’d better come back to me. 

“I won’t,” Wooyoung promises. “Stay safe, too.” 

He takes turns hugging Mingi and Jongho, lingering with Yunho last. Battered, bloodied Yunho who rests his chin on the top of Wooyoung’s head and says “take care of him” with more emotion than he usually shows. 

At least they’re all carrying this secret for Seonghwa, Wooyoung thinks. He would implode if he had to hold it alone. 

“I will,” he says. Pushes himself up on his toes and ignores the strain in his ribs so that he can press a kiss to Yunho’s cheek. Once upon a time, Yunho would have flinched away, but now he just steadies Wooyoung with hands on his waist and keeps him close, letting Wooyoung’s lips linger. “I’ll bring them all back, jagi.” 

It’s probably a stupid oath, considering the circumstances, but Yunho accepts it. They all need foolish hope sometimes, even the most pragmatic of them. 

“Ready?” Seonghwa asks him, hovering near the door. 

Wooyoung checks the sword that he’s sure is going to be useless and the canteen of precious water strapped to his other hip. “Ready.” 

Together, the four of them step into the morning heat, braced for one more fight. 

Chapter Text

I try not to miss it, Wooyoung says to Seonghwa over cups of tea, legs folded into one of the narrow cockpit chairs. Beyond the windows, foreign stars gleam scattershot above an endless forest. But it’s impossible. 

Seonghwa frowns at him with grief-laced sympathy. They’ve known each other for only six months, at this hushed moment in time, but war and loss forge bonds quickly between those who survived, who have to keep living in a changed world. 

It was your home, Seonghwa says. Of course you miss it. 

Like the rest of them, Seonghwa talks about his home only in pieces: a stern father, a quiet upbringing, a small colony that still couldn’t escape the empire’s wrath. They don’t ask each other about the things they’ve left behind. 

It’s weird, Wooyoung laughs, the kind that’s more jagged and sad—closer to a sob than he wants it to be. I was thinking about how much I miss the bread we used to buy on our way to class. Isn’t that stupid? 

Bread, of all things. Sold at a little stand situated on the winding road to their school. Pooling his change with Yeosang to buy themselves a piece to share each morning, part of a mundane, precious ritual. Perhaps it’s easier to miss bread than to miss other, bigger things. 

It’s not stupid, Seonghwa says, a gentle smile curving across his mouth. He’s so gentle, Seonghwa, and Wooyoung already loves him. Already looks at him and thinks: home. Seonghwa takes a long sip of his tea—the smile fading into bittersweet sadness. I miss little things too. 

They don’t ask, but tonight Wooyoung says, like what? 

And Seonghwa answers him. The drink my grandmother used to make for my brother and I. To help us sleep. The stories my mother used to read when we were little. The sunrise over the buildings. Things like that. 

Wooyoung hesitates, unsure if he should push further into the territory. If Seonghwa will let him. It’s a fraught place, but there is a sense of safety in this little cocoon they’ve created, drawn to each other because nightmares once again wouldn’t let them sleep. 

Did any of them survive? Wooyoung asks, taking the plunge. 

Seonghwa stiffens but doesn’t snap, doesn’t leave. 

No, he says with terrible finality—awful, miserable certainty. None of them did. 

Sympathetic words seem to trite for the heaviness between them now. Nothing like I’m sorry or you have us now will matter in the face of such thorough loss. So Wooyoung just leans across the small space and takes Seonghwa’s hand. Seonghwa smiles at him, grateful and so very sad. 

Together, they drink the rest of their tea and watch the stars. 

_ _ 

The canyons stretch on and on, a towering maze of red walls that extends so far above their heads that Wooyoung can barely see the sky in places. Even this removed from the surface, the sun burns with unrelenting fury. Each step through the packed sand and dirt requires the strength of his whole body. 

A few meters ahead of him, Hongjoong pauses to consult a map. He’s moving much faster, which makes Wooyoung feel inadequate until he remembers that a) he’s fucking injured and b) he already went two rounds against the Guardians while all Hongjoong did was trek to an outpost and back. San hovers at Wooyoung’s elbow, watching him like he’s expecting Wooyoung to collapse any moment—concern that is somehow both gratifying and irritating. 

“I’m fine,” he tells San and it isn’t even a lie. 

He’s hot and tired and gradually dissolving into a sweat monster, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to faint. It’s probably all the adrenaline still coursing through him. He was ready to walk to his death about two hours ago and he hasn’t come back down from that yet. 

“We’re heading in the right direction,” Hongjoong announces. “If the Guardians are headed for us, they’ll be coming this way.” 

He gestures to the kilometers of canyon running all the way to the horizon. Occasional, smaller paths branch away to the left or right, but the main thoroughfare continues in a straight, unwavering line. 

“We have to be getting close,” Seonghwa says, mopping his brow in a pointless exercise. “They won’t just let us go and they won’t stay camped out by their ship for too long.” 

Wooyoung nods in agreement. Considering the damage done to their ship, the Guardians aren’t simply flying out, either. In that one aspect, at least, they’re on even ground. 

“You said you blew out their engine?” Hongjoong asks as they start forward again. 

“Yunho did,” Wooyoung says. “Shot them right out of the sky.” 

San shakes his head in amazement. “Sorry I missed it.” 

He doesn’t seem angry about the fact that Wooyoung almost died without him but it can be hard to tell with San, sometimes. He wears every emotion and thought on his sleeve until he suddenly doesn’t. Like the rest of them, he’s learned to lock parts of himself away in order to survive. Wooyoung figures they’ll have some emotional talks ahead of them, presuming they make it through this. San has also never let Wooyoung run from his feelings like Yeosang does. 

It’s awful. A small part of Wooyoung hopes he still gets eaten by a dragon so he doesn’t have to face an upset San, a heartbroken San, a disappointed San. 

“Movement up ahead,” Seonghwa says suddenly. 

Wooyoung jerks his attention away from San and back to the canyon where two familiar figures have materialized, growing larger as they approach—their silhouettes rippling in the heat. At least it’s still only the two of them. If they’d managed to repair the third, Wooyoung might have screamed and then just laid down in defeat right here. 

“Holy shit,” San says and Wooyoung remembers with a jolt that it’s his first time experiencing a Guardian up close. Hongjoong also looks wary—hand hovering near his sword. 

“Alright,” Seonghwa says with remarkable calm. “I need all three of you to stay back. Only interfere if they kill me or I fall unconscious.” 

Hongjoong regards him with alarm. “What are you going to do?” 

Seonghwa retrieves the pouch of Dust from his belt. “Hopefully win.” 

“You’re going to fight them?” Hongjoong’s voice is rising—anger to hide his fear. “By yourself?” 

“Yes,” Seonghwa says and raises the pouch to his lips. Wooyoung sucks in a hot, searing breath and holds it. 

San rushes forward, arm outstretched. “Hyung! Ingesting that will kill you!” 

Seonghwa smiles at him, another sad thing. “Not me.” He pauses, grief and regret etched into the weary lines of his face. “I’m so sorry, San-ah.” 

And then he tips his head back and swallows the entire contents of the pouch, grimacing as he forces it down his throat. He lets the empty pouch drop into the sand and closes his eyes, swaying, while San grips his arm and Hongjoong looks caught between wanting to yell or actually run Seonghwa through with his sword, helpless in his fear.  

For an agonizing breath, nothing happens. Wooyoung exhales, inhales again, letting San and Hongjoong express their worry and keeping his own locked in his chest. Samhan royalty, the subjects of myth, and Seonghwa, his hyung, whom he trusts—they seem to be two opposing, warring things until Seonghwa opens eyes that glow an iridescent yellow, like the scorching sun high above their heads. 

Hongjoong and San stumble back. Seonghwa looks past them, fixing his unnatural gaze on Wooyoung, who’s not quite sure he can breathe anymore. This feels like standing in the presence of a god and he hates it. 

He’s never been religious, no matter how many times his mother tried to get him to make offerings at their local temple. 

“Take care of them,” Seonghwa says and even his voice sounds different, like there are two people talking—a strange echo in the wake of Seonghwa’s initial words. 

Wooyoung nods, his own words too tangled up in his throat to speak. 

And then Seonghwa moves. One second, he’s standing between a flabbergasted Hongjoong and San and the next he’s halfway down the canyon with his sword drawn, traveling nearly a quarter kilometer in the span of a blink. 

“What the fuck,” Hongjoong says. 

Samhan royalty, Wooyoung thinks, near hysterical. 

“Samhan,” San echoes, realization beginning to bloom on his face. “But I thought—” 

The rest of his words are lost to the explosion of sound that is Seonghwa colliding with the Guardians—the screech of metal, the sing of steel, the rumble traveling up the canyon walls on either side of them like a dragon’s gathering roar. Sand churns into a small storm, reducing Seonghwa and the Guardians to hazy silhouettes within its epicenter. Wooyoung drops into a crouch, bracing his palms against the hot earth and bowing his head against the sudden gust of wind that tears down the canyon, awakened by the battle and howling along the walls. 

A Guardian emerges from the cyclone, skidding backwards with Seonghwa in pursuit, glowing like a golden beacon. He slams feet first into the Guardian’s chest, knocking it to the ground like it’s weightless. Cracks spiderweb along its already damaged armor and it claws at Seonghwa’s ankles, trying to dislodge him. In response, Seonghwa digs the heel of one boot into its neck, pressing it into the sand. 

The other Guardian comes to its companion’s rescue, slashing at Seonghwa’s back with its spear. Seonghwa easily dodges the swing and grabs the spear with one hand, seemingly uncaring of the blade digging into his palm, the blood dripping to the scorched sand. With a casual twist of his wrist, he disarms the Guardian, then breaks the metal spear as though it was made of matchstick wood. 

“Gods,” San breathes. 

The first Guardian surges to its feet, a blur of motion—the arc of its sword too fast for Wooyoung to track. But Seonghwa sidesteps this blow, as well, and the three successive attacks. His counterattack is even faster, little more than a blink. His sword drives right through the Guardian’s armor and circuits, piercing where its heart would be if it was human. It lets out a strange, guttural groan, like a rusty hinge or grinding gears. Seonghwa wrenches the sword free, coated with a substance that could be tainted blood or oil, and kicks the Guardian with a boot to the stomach. It flies backwards, crashing into the canyon wall so violently that large chunks of rock break free, tumbling to the earth and kicking up more sprays of sand. 

Wooyoung curls further into himself, wrenching the hood of his poncho lower over his face and grateful for the protection of his goggles. He feels San drop down next to him, both of them insects weathering a clash of titans. Only Hongjoong remains on his feet, fixated on the fight and chest so still he might be holding his breath. 

The second Guardian picks up the broken fragment of its spear and attacks again, taking advantage of Seonghwa’s momentary distraction. This time, a blow lands, the broken metal point piercing into Seonghwa’s shoulder and again into the meat of his thigh. Seonghwa doesn’t register the wounds, grabbing the Guardian’s faceplate with one hand. Wooyoung’s mouth drops open as Seonghwa digs his fingers in and breaks the metal like fragile human bone. The Guardian screeches, another grating, inhuman sound, and staggers backwards. 

Seonghwa’s entire sleeve and pant leg are soaked in red but he doesn’t slow down, dodging the Guardian who has managed to dislodge itself from the canyon wall. He keeps backing up, putting some distance between him and the Guardians, and his right hand starts to glow, strands of energy wrapping around skin in glittering, translucent layers. Brighter and brighter, until a miniature sun is spinning and crackling in his palm. 

The Guardians advance, injured but still somehow intact. Seonghwa slams the gathered energy into the canyon wall. The earth bucks and rumbles as if a sleeping giant is awakening beneath it. Hongjoong is knocked off his feet, crashing into the sand beside Wooyoung and San as they try to endure the sudden earthquake. Cracks rapidly form along the canyon, widening into fissures, and with an ear-splitting roar, the whole rock face comes down on the Guardians, crushing them beneath several tons of rubble and furious earth. Sand spews like geysers into the clear sky, churning into a dust storm, and Wooyoung feels San’s body cover his own, trying to shield him from the brunt of it. 

He squeezes his eyes shut as sand and bits of gravel scrape against his goggles and the seam of his lips. Dust fills his nostrils and coats the back of his throat and the canyon is still collapsing, entire kilometers of thousand-year-old stone breaking apart because of one man. 

Though … can Seonghwa still be called a man? 

San’s face presses into his neck. Somewhere, Hongjoong is yelling. It sounds like Seonghwa’s name over and over, each iteration more frantic than the last. Finally the noise stops and the earth settles. Wooyoung lifts his head just in time to see the tiny, distant figure of Seonghwa amidst the towering piles of debris, protected by a golden, rippling shield. 

The shield dissipates and Seonghwa collapses face-first into the sand. Next to them, Hongjoong scrambles to his feet, sprinting for Seonghwa’s body. 

“Are you okay?” San asks, voice scraped raw. 

“I think so,” Wooyoung croaks. They’re both alive, at least. 

They survived the wrath of a god. 

Hongjoong reaches Seonghwa’s side. And the earth rumbles again. 

“What?” San says in horror, sitting up as the remaining canyons shake. “What’s happening?”

Shit, did Seonghwa trigger some kind of seismic event? 

A new roar, filling the sky, setting Wooyoung’s teeth on edge. No, he realizes with dawning horror. Not a seismic event. 

Seonghwa woke up the fucking dragon. 

San must reach the same conclusion because he turns to Wooyoung with a look of terror on his face that Wooyoung’s only seen once before: when he got stabbed five times by imperial forces looking to break up a city protest. San’s expression was the same, the last thing Wooyoung saw before falling unconscious only to wake up in an underground hospital four days later. 

“We have to run,” Wooyoung rasps, forcing his protesting body up. “We have to run right fucking now.” 

“We’ll never make it,” San says as another roar nearly bowls them over again. 

Wooyoung frantically scans their surroundings, searching for any kind of escape. Hongjoong manages to get Seonghwa’s limp form onto his back, staggering in their direction. San turns to help him and Wooyoung spots it: a small opening in a different canyon wall, potentially leading into a cave system beneath the surface. 

“There!” He shouts, pointing. 

“Go!” San yells back, in the process of taking Seonghwa from a protesting Hongjoong. “I’ll help the captain.” 

Suddenly, a shadow lengths overhead, plunging the whole canyon into darkness. Wooyoung throws himself into a sprint, glimpsing the spread of a wing blacking out the sky, nearly bigger than a space station. Electricity crackles in the air and he can taste the burnt static of it on his tongue, smell the singe of the hair along his arms and the back of his neck. He reaches the opening and turns to make sure that San and Hongjoong are following. 

“Come on!” He beckons them to hurry as the earth bucks again in response to the dragon landing further up the canyon, screeching at a volume not meant for human ears. 

San shoves Hongjoong in front of him, managing to sprint even with Seonghwa on his back, and they pass through the opening seconds before a wave of concentrated electricity ripples down the canyon, turning rocks to dust and sizzling along the surface of the sand. 

“Fuck,” Wooyoung curses, stumbling further into the cave. “It doesn’t breathe fire?” 

“Not all dragons breathe fire,” Hongjoong says, matter-of-fact. He sounds like he’s talking just to keep from screaming. “We had poison ones on Somni, though they were a lot smaller….” 

“Hyung, not important,” San says, crouching to lower Seonghwa’s body gently to the cool floor. 

Hongjoong focuses immediately, kneeling on Seonghwa’s other side. Wooyoung steps closer to run a quick visual assessment. Besides his stab wounds, Seonghwa doesn’t seem injured and yet he’s eerily still and his pulse is faint when Wooyoung presses two fingers to his neck.

“What’s wrong with him?” Hongjoong asks.

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung says. If he had Dust poisoning, he would be experiencing seizures and vomiting black bile. Not this placid, yet deep unconsciousness, like he’s fallen into a coma. 

Please don’t let him have fallen into a coma. 

“I need proper medical equipment,” Wooyoung snaps when Hongjoong glares at him in frustration. “I can’t run a diagnosis in a cave.” 

San puts placating hands between them. “We can just wait out the dragon and then go back to the ship.” 

“We don’t know how long the dragon’s going to be out there,” Hongjoong argues. 

As if in answer, another roar shakes the cave and the smell of electricity fills the air again. 

“Well, I’m not going back out there,” Wooyoung says. “We’re safe in here, we just need to wait—” 

A sudden jolt—the whole cave heaving like a living thing from the force of an unseen impact—and the ceiling cracking above them, coming apart just like the towering rock wall outside, and did Seonghwa somehow—no,no, the dragon. The dragon must have struck the canyon with its tail and it’s so huge that a single blow is more than powerful enough to—

“Look out!” San screams as chunks of stone break free from the ceiling. 

Wooyoung throws his arms up to protect his head, twisting to shield Seonghwa’s prone form. Pain lances down his arms and back and something strikes his head, turning his vision into violent starbursts before the world goes mercifully dark. 

_ _ 

The city is dead, full of twisted skyscraper skeletons bleached white by chemical and exposure. Bombs carved jagged holes in their bodies, their metal innards bared and crumbling. Wooyoung remembers when it was green, when people came from all over the galaxy to wander its gardens and read in its archives and study in its universities. It was where he wanted to go after his own graduation: the jewel at the center of human existence. Hala, it was called. An aura of light. 

Perhaps that was why Braxis made sure to destroy it so thoroughly. 

So the city is dead. And Wooyoung stands amidst the rubble dressed in black. Mourning black. Soot black. Reaper black. His long coat brushes the calves of his pants and in the hole of this shattered building, water gathers at his ankles, soaking through the top of his boots. A few meters away, Yeosang stands in a beam of light piercing the layers of concrete and steel, radiating from a weakened sun.

His black hair has gotten long and his birthmark blooms like fire across his cheek. He’s dressed in the loose white clothing that he used to don when he accompanied his parents to the temples of their homeworld. Did you know, he says in his quiet rumble, they’re burning effigies of us. 

He turns to face Wooyoung and the light renders him unnatural. Does that make us gods? 

Wooyoung thinks of Hongjoong in the hush of their ship, wanting to make a difference. Of a movement that ripples out like reverberating notes, stones piercing the tranquil surface of a lake. Hope is such a fragile thing, but when you hand enough of it to people, they will set it on fire. 

Seonghwa in a desert canyon, shattering the earth with a touch of his palm. The uniform they donned to hide their identities transformed into a symbol staked beside an altar, draped with offerings. A metal behemoth crushes his ribs beneath its heel, grinding him into the sand. The people fight instead of becoming perfect, placid subjects, and Braxis seethes. After all, Hongjoong says into a microphone, voice projected across half a city, all empires end, don’t they? 

I never wanted to be a god, Wooyoung says to this strange Yeosang, this cold and distant version of him, washed out by sunlight. 

Yeosang smiles without any of his usual sardonic affection. I don’t think we always get to choose. 

Seonghwa, burning like a sun. People trapped in an altered world, desperate for something to worship, to cling to, that might save them from new oppressors. After all, what is faith if not trust in the impossible? If eight men can manage to unsettle an empire then they must be gods, right? 

But you’re right, Yeosang continues, startling Wooyoung from his thoughts. His stomach has started to bleed—a bloom of red expanding steadily across the white fabric of his robe. I don’t think we’re gods. 

The blood drips into the water, causing ripples along the dark surface. Wooyoung sloshes forward in alarm as the red crawls up Yeosang’s chest and seeps down his thighs. Yeosang lowers his gaze to his own body, almost contemplative as he watches himself bleed out. 

When he looks back up at Wooyoung, he’s still smiling. It grows wider, distorting his face. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have died in some desert, right? 

Wooyoung gasps awake, arms outstretched in an attempt to staunch the blood pouring from Yeosang’s stomach. 

Except he’s not standing in a dead city, he’s lying on a bed staring up at a familiar metallic ceiling. A hand covers his own, lowering it back to the mattress, and Yeosang appears above him, brow furrowed in concern. He looks tired, skin too pale and rendering his birthmark as red as a burn, but whole and alive and—Wooyoung confirms with a quick glance to his torso—free of blood. 

“You’re awake,” Yeosang says. And then, “I should kill you.” 

Wooyoung struggles to piece together the hazy fragments of his memory: fighting the Guardians, Seonghwa almost leaving them, Hongjoong and the others returning, going to confront the Guardians a final time, Seonghwa turning himself into some kind of superhuman, the canyon collapsing, the dragon, the cave…. 

Oh. 

“The cave came down. The dragon—” His body aches and throbs, reminding him of the rocks crashing into him, crushing him into the sand. 

“Yeah,” Yeosang says in a carefully measured tone. “We heard the dragon. And then you didn’t come back, so Jongho and Mingi went looking. They dug you out.” A shaky breath. “You’re lucky. You don’t have a concussion or any broken bones. The brace protected your ribs from the worst of it. You’re going to have a shitton of bruises, but you’re mostly fine.” 

“How long was I out?” Wooyoung croaks. His throat feels scraped raw from dust and screaming. 

“About a day,” Yeosang says, grim. 

A day. Shit. 

“And the others?” 

“Hongjoong and Sannie are awake. Hongjoong hyung woke up first, San a few hours after him.” Yeosang’s expression darkens. “But…” he steps to the side and Wooyoung sees Seonghwa lying prone on the other bed, unnaturally still. If it weren’t for the beep of the chestplate monitoring his vitals, Wooyoung would think he was looking at a corpse. 

“He won’t wake up,” Yeosang says. “We’ve tried everything we can think of. All of his vitals are normal. He doesn’t have any head injuries and it’s not Dust poisoning. He should be fine. But he won’t wake up.” 

Wooyoung’s heart sinks towards his stomach. They can’t lose Seonghwa. After all of this, Seonghwa can’t still manage to leave them. 

“Let me up,” Wooyoung insists. “I should have a look.” 

“Yah,” Yeosang says. “You were just unconscious for a whole day.” 

“You just said I’m fine,” Wooyoung huffs, batting Yeosang’s hand away and pushing himself into a sitting position. 

Pain immediately twinges through his ribs, shoulder, and back but he grits his teeth through it, and Yeosang steps forward with a sigh, steadying him so that he doesn’t topple sideways off the bed when the room spins for a precarious moment. He blinks until his head clears, aware of Yeosang’s gaze boring into the side of his scratched-up face. 

“I came back,” he says quietly. 

“You almost didn’t,” Yeosang replies. “I told you not to do anything stupid.” 

Wooyoung thinks of his mad dash away from the dragon’s electrical storm and wheezes out a laugh. “You know me. Sometimes I can’t help myself.” 

Yeosang surprises him by stepping closer and pressing his forehead to Wooyoung’s temple, his arm winding around Wooyoung’s shoulders to draw him into an almost embrace. Wooyoung has always been the touchier one by nature—him and San taking turns barging into Yeosang’s space, trying in their own ways to make sure that Yeosang stays tethered to them, that Yeosang knows that he’s loved because none of them are good at talking about it. But right now Yeosang is holding him like he’s afraid that Wooyoung will turn to sand and run through his fingers, subsumed once more by the unforgiving desert. Wooyoung shifts so that they’re facing each other, forehead to forehead, and reaches up to run his thumb over the darkened skin of Yeosang’s birthmark, tracing from the bone of his cheek to the corner of his eye. 

He wants to close the last of the distance between them and kiss Yeosang on the mouth, wants to linger there to feel Yeosang’s warmth, to drink him in and revel in the fact that they’re both alive. They survived yet another trial, the desert and the empire won’t claim them after all. 

But they’re both injured and Seonghwa is unconscious just across the room. Like always, this doesn’t seem to be the right time. Someday, Wooyoung thinks, he will finally sweep away all the unspoken things that have piled up between them. He will finally press his lips to Yeosang’s and touch him how he’s wanted to for years, with a kind of love that could burn planets. 

For now, he murmurs, “I’m okay, Sangie. You didn’t lose me, I didn’t lose you.” 

“I know,” Yeosang murmurs back and pulls away to help Wooyoung off the bed. 

Together, they hobble over to Seonghwa and Wooyoung frowns at the readings on the chestplate. Like Yeosang said, they’re all normal. According to all the data, Seonghwa is completely fine, but his normally golden-hued skin is pale as ash and his eyes remain closed. Wooyoung rests a trembling hand on top of his head, fingers sinking into the splay of his dark hair. 

“Hyung,” he says, hating how helpless he feels. He can set broken bones and patch up stomach wounds and carefully extract bullets from torn flesh, but there doesn’t seem to be anything he can do to fix this. “Come back to us.” 

Seonghwa gives no indication that he’s heard. Yeosang squeezes his other hand tight, reassuring pressure. “I think,” he says in a tired, heavy voice. “We just have to wait.” 

“I hate waiting,” Wooyoung mutters. 

The chestplate monitor beeps, a steady, grating rhythm. A blessed indicator of life. 

_ _ 

Yeosang wants him to go back to bed, to rest more, but Wooyoung would go crazy cooped up in their tiny med bay with Seonghwa’s unconscious form and no action to focus him. 

“Let me at least see the others,” he half-begs and Yeosang caves, guiding him up the stairs to the main cabin with careful, halting steps and lots of admonishments not to strain himself, as though Yeosang isn’t still recovering himself, looking just as exhausted from the trek as Wooyoung feels. 

Mingi is in the pilot’s chair, headphones on and probably talking to San outside. It’s strange, seeing the beams of harsh desert sun spilling almost peacefully across the cabin floor, as though the last few days were nothing but a fever dream. His injuries at least say otherwise, as does the tired hunch of Yunho’s long frame over the navigation table, the brace still bulky and sturdy around his healing leg. He looks up first when they cross the threshold, eyes widening. 

“You’re awake,” he says, straightening. Then, his mouth purses into a familiar displeased moue. “What are you doing up?” 

Wooyoung ignores the impending lecture, just lets go of Yeosang and shuffles over to half-collapse against Yunho’s chest. Yunho makes a startled sound but immediately returns the embrace, resting his chin on top of Wooyoung’s head and rubbing Wooyoung’s shuddering back. From the cockpit, Wooyoung can hear Mingi telling San to get inside and the creak of his chair as he rises. Then Mingi’s large hand is cupping the back of his neck. 

“Thank the gods,” he mutters and doesn’t even try to berate Wooyoung, which means he was definitely rattled. 

Yunho tightens his grip, a desperate sort of relief that Wooyoung understands intimately. “We don’t have to die together after all, Yunho-yah,” he mumbles into the worn fabric of Yunho’s shirt. 

“No,” Yunho says. “Not yet.” 

“Not ever,” Mingi insists, followed by the sound of him smacking Yunho on the shoulder. 

Suddenly the doors of the ship hiss open and footsteps clatter across the metal floor. Yunho lets go just as a new pair of arms wrench Wooyoung into a frantic embrace. Wooyoung finds his face buried in a sweat-soaked neck, tasting flecks of sand and salt against his lips, and San says “Wooyoung-ah” like he’s breaking. 

“Sannie,” Wooyoung replies, fisting his hands in the back of San’s poncho. “Sannie, you’re okay?” 

He puts some distance between them, ignoring San’s protests, so that he can look him over. A gash across his temple that’s been recently stitched, probably by Yunho or Jongho. Red, scabbing scrapes along one cheek. Bandages covering what is probably another gash across his back, stiff with dried blood when Wooyoung gets his hands under San’s clothes to touch them. But no broken bones, no signs of any grievous injury. 

Somehow, it seems they all got lucky. 

Except for Seonghwa. 

“I’m okay,” San says, eyes shiny with tears. “And you’re awake.” Gloved hands cup Wooyoung’s face. The fingers are stained with grease and oil from Mago’s innards that smear across Wooyoung’s skin, but Wooyoung can’t bring himself to care. 

“I’m awake,” he says and wants to kiss San, too. 

San does kiss him, though only on the cheek. It still sears as San lingers. “I’m so glad,” San says when he pulls back, voice wet with unshed tears. 

He turns and, uncaring of their audience, reaches for Yeosang, pulling him in, too, so that he can hold them both. “I’m so glad,” he repeats, stroking their heads, getting their hair all messy. 

Yeosang doesn’t seem to mind either, just lets himself be held and touched and regards them like they’re a miracle. 

The doors opening again breaks them of their reverie and this time it’s Jongho and Hongjoong that blow in with the wind, back from some kind of scouting mission. 

“They were checking the perimeter,” Yunho explains in response to Wooyoung’s questioning look, as Hongjoong and Jongho remove their goggles and wipe dust from their faces. “To make sure there aren’t any other imperial ships in the vicinity.” 

Jongho clocks Wooyoung first and Wooyoung is surprised by the naked relief that breaks across the face of their normally stoic youngest. He’s surprised even further when Jongho hurries over to hug him, though with far more caution than San did. 

“Hyung,” is all he says, but Wooyoung hears the love and grief in it. He imagines Jongho and Mingi trying to dig him out of the rubble—can see where Mingi’s hands are scraped and cut from the sharp rocks of the canyon and knows Jongho’s must be the same beneath his gloves. He imagines being in their position, not knowing if it’s a crewmate or a body that he’s digging for, and hugs Jongho back fiercely, hooking his chin on Jongho’s sturdy shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says, out of energy for his usual teasing. “For saving my life.” 

“You didn’t make it easy,” Jongho huffs. 

Then he steps back to let Hongjoong through. 

Their captain looks about as battered as San, with a cut-up face and bandages peeking out from under his clothes. He also has his left arm in one of Wooyoung’s braces and at Wooyoung’s alarmed look, he huffs and grumbles, “Yah, don’t get worked up. It’s a sprain, not a break.” 

Then he actually drags Wooyoung into his arms, which is more astonishing than even Jongho showing physical affection. “I’m glad you’re awake,” he says. “You shouldn’t be up here, but I’m glad you’re okay.” 

“Are you going to order me back to bed, hyung?” Wooyoung asks, already knowing that he won’t listen. 

“I should,” Hongjoong says darkly, but doesn’t actually make good on the threat. Just steps back and takes a deep, steadying breath, some of his captain’s mask slipping back into place. “It looks like we all got lucky and sustained mostly superficial injuries. The rest of the crew had to wait until the dragon fucked off but they managed to dig us out after nightfall, when it went hunting. I woke up earlier this morning and San not long after me. We figured you would need more rest because of your injuries. But Seonghwa….” His expression darkens. 

Wooyoung grips his bony shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

Hongjoong looks like he’d been anticipating that response, but he still closes his eyes like he’s been dealt a blow. “So we just have to wait?” 

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung repeats and Hongjoong shakes his head. 

“It’s not your fault, Wooyoung-ah.” 

It was Seonghwa’s choice, Wooyoung knows that, but he’s still their medic. What good is he if he can’t save them? He doesn’t feel like trying to voice that, though, knowing that he’ll be told off by everyone currently present and Seonghwa if (when) he finally wakes up. 

So he just nods and sinks into the gentle whirlwind of their care, allowing himself to be ushered into the mess hall and fed soup that isn’t nearly as good as his or Seonghwa’s, but still a valiant effort from San that settles warm and comforting in his belly. . He drinks every glass of water that is insistently put in front of him. He showers, then lets Yeosang and Jongho adjust his brace and check his bandages. 

Repairs to the ship are coming along, he’s told, but it will probably be at least another two or three days before everything is complete. Jongho and Hongjoong are planning to do another run to the outpost tomorrow to pick up more food and medical supplies, though they both look reluctant to leave. Wooyoung spends the rest of his afternoon in one of the comms chairs, watching Yunho and Mingi chart a new course to their supply dropoff, because apparently their client is okay with their delay and happy to wait for the cargo they’re meant to deliver. 

He decides to sleep in the med bay that night because he doesn’t want Seonghwa to be alone. But when he reaches the door, he finds that Hongjoong is already inside, bent over Seonghwa’s bed. Wooyoung instinctively steps out of view, fully prepared to eavesdrop. 

“You bastard,” Hongjoong opens with, which is typical. The tremor in his voice is not. “Why won’t you wake up?” The sound of a palm striking the mattress. “You can’t write a fucking note like that and then die on me, you hear me?” 

Oh, so Hongjoong found the note. It must have survived the fight and the collapse of the cave somehow. Wooyoung wonders what Seonghwa put in it. A long-awaited love confession? That seems cruel, especially for Seonghwa. 

“And we have to talk about the fact that you’re apparently fucking royalty,” Hongjoong continues. “And have special powers? And didn’t think to tell me about any of that? What kind of second are you? I should fire you.” 

He chokes on his next breath, like he’s actually trying not to cry, and that’s horrible enough for Wooyoung to decide to put him out of his misery. He backs up a quiet step and then purposefully bangs into one of the bulkheads to herald his arrival. By the time he reaches the door of the med bay again, Hongjoong has predictably straightened and is pretending to check Seonghwa’s vitals. 

“Oh, captain,” Wooyoung says, feigning surprise. “Is he still stable?” 

Hongjoong clears his throat. Wooyoung pretends not to notice the redness along the rims of his eyes. “Yeah. I swear he’s just doing this to piss us off.” 

Wooyoung huffs. “Sadly, hyung, he isn’t the type. If it were me, I would totally stay unconscious just to get a break from all of you. But Seonghwa is too nice for that.”  

“Don’t compliment him, I’m mad at him,” Hongjoong grumbles. But his hands instinctively twitch towards Seonghwa as though he wants to stroke his hair and touch his skin in a way he never allows himself when Seonghwa is awake because they’re both colossal idiots. 

“He did save our lives,” Wooyoung points out, shuffling towards the other bed. 

“He half saved our lives. The dragon was totally his fault.” 

“Okay, I’ll give you that one. We should be mad at him about that.” 

It’s easier to be mad than to keep flashing back to the canyon wall cracking beneath Seonghwa’s palm like rock had suddenly transformed into glass. Than to try reconciling that image with the gentle hyung that has lived by his side for four years, cooking with him, drinking tea with him on the nights they couldn’t sleep, cleaning up after him with a sigh that always sounded too fond. 

“Are you spending the night down here?” Hongjoong asks. 

Wooyoung nods, hauling himself onto the bed with a groan loud enough that Hongjoong abandons Seonghwa to fuss over him instead. 

“Someone should keep him company.” Hongjoong opens his mouth. Wooyoung kicks him gently in the shin. “And it shouldn’t be you. You need to rest if you’re gonna make the trek to the outpost tomorrow, not hold vigil in a horrible chair.” 

For a minute, Wooyoung thinks that Hongjoong is going to argue with him, but he just shakes his head in defeat and pushes Wooyoung to lie down, pulling sheets and blankets up over him like he’s a child being tucked in by a parent. Normally, he would snap about it, make a fuss, because that’s him and Hongjoong’s normal routine. They don’t care for each other this way: so blatant, so close to actual tenderness. Hongjoong’s expression says that he needs this, though. Seonghwa is unconscious, out of reach, and he needs to know that he can look after at least one of them. 

So Wooyoung rolls his eyes and settles onto the mattress, letting Hongjoong adjust the blankets until they’re covering him properly. 

“You’re right,” Hongjoong says as a distraction from his actions. “The chairs down here are horrible, we should get new ones.” 

“Next planet we stop on,” Wooyoung says. “I’m holding you to it.” 

Hongjoong’s mouth quirks in a fleeting smile. “Fine.” He hesitates, hands twitching again, and since they’re doing the care thing, Wooyoung figures he might as well lean in. 

He gets his good arm free of the blankets and snags one of Hongjoong’s hands, squeezing tight. “I’ll be fine, hyung.” 

“And—” 

“And I’ll sound the alarm if he wakes.” 

“Or—” 

“Or if I need anything, yes.” 

Hongjoong glares at him, squeezes back. “Good. Get some rest, Wooyoung-ah. You need it, too.” 

“Aye, aye, captain,” Wooyoung says, dropping Hongjoong’s hand so he can salute. 

“Brat,” Hongjoong mutters, too affectionate to carry any sting. 

He shuffles out of the room with several furtive glances at Seonghwa, pausing to dim the lights before he crosses the threshold into the hall. The door hisses shut behind him, leaving Wooyoung alone with the quiet, steady beeping of Seonghwa’s vital monitor. He figures he has maybe an hour or two before Yeosang or San show up to insist on holding vigil so he should probably try to follow Hongjoong’s orders for once in his life and sleep. 

He glances over at Seonghwa’s prone form. “Yah, you’d really better wake up, hyung. You’re stressing Hongjoong out and you know what he’s like.” 

Silence, as expected. 

Wooyoung sighs and closes his eyes. 

_ _ 

As anticipated, morning brings heat seeping through the bulkheads and San dozing in a chair between his and Seonghwa’s beds, bandaged arms crossed over his chest and neck at a truly horrific angle. 

“Idiot,” Wooyoung hisses, throwing a pillow at him and ignoring the protest of his ribs. “You were injured, too.” 

San startles awake like a frightened cat, nearly upending the chair. He regains his balance quickly, frowning at Wooyoung. “It was me or Sangie,” he says. “I convinced him to sleep in his bunk if I promised to stay with you.” 

“Then you’re both idiots,” Wooyoung says to counteract the sudden, familiar tightness in his chest at their consideration. 

“Sure, Wooyoung-ah,” San says, fitting the pillow back under Wooyoung’s head. “But so are you.” 

Wooyoung would argue, but he has almost died at least three times in the last three days so he probably doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this fight. “Fine, we’re all moronic. Let me up.” 

“You should rest more–” 

“Not a chance.” Wooyoung extends an impatient hand and San takes it with a defeated noise, levering Wooyoung upright. Pushover. If it was Yeosang, he probably would have tied Wooyoung to the bed and just left him. 

“How’s Seonghwa hyung?” 

“No change,” San says sadly. 

Wooyoung scrubs an anxious hand over his face. Two days. What if this is an actual coma? He wishes there was a hospital he could take Seonghwa to without either fear of imperial arrest or Seonghwa’s organs being sold on some black market. 

“Do you know what this could be?” He asks desperately. 

San shakes his head. “No, I … the royal family was notoriously secretive. We didn’t even know what they looked like. They always wore masks and the princes didn’t have public names, only monikers.” 

“What was Seonghwa?” 

San’s lips twitch. “Raven.” 

“I’ve always thought he looks like a bird,” Wooyoung says with a snort and San’s smile flickers wider before fading. 

“So I have no idea what this is,” he says. “I don’t know how to help. I … I thought all the royals died. The palace burned, so did the archives, when the capital fell.” 

“He told us he was supposed to die,” Wooyoung blurts because the naked grief and sorrow on Seonghwa’s face is too much to carry alone. “That his mission was to destroy royal artifacts and then … go die. So the empire couldn’t get their hands on his body.” 

San’s eyes slip closed, the already sharp lines of his face more pronounced by weary sadness. “They were myths,” he whispers. “More than they were people. We worshiped them. Feared them.” He glances at Seonghwa. “Now I see that we were right to.” 

“Yah,” Wooyoung says, stomach roiling. “He’s still our hyung.” 

San’s shoulders tense. “Is he?”

“He has to be.” How much would it hurt Seonghwa to learn that they fear him now? “I won’t let him be anything else, Sannie.” 

“But he is,” San says and rarely is he the more pragmatic of the two of them. “He was a prince. He might have been a god. And … we expected them to fight, did you know that? We thought that they would fight, that they would save us. But they burned in their gilded palace instead. They abandoned us to the empire. The empire took the city without a fight and the city burned, too.” 

San stares down at his hands. They’ve started to tremble. “I hated them for that. But now I … I don’t know what to think.” 

“We aren’t what we were.” Wooyoung reaches for one of those shaking hands, stilling the tremors. “San-ah, that’s all gone. We can’t dig it up again.” 

“He’s the one who did.” 

“To save us.” 

“I know,” San says, swallowing. “I know that, I just—” A frustrated exhale. “It’s complicated.” 

Seonghwa coaxing him back to bed after a nightmare. Seonghwa prepared to leave them, writing them goodbye notes in the dark. Seonghwa glowing like a sun, powerful and furious. 

“Yeah,” Wooyoung concedes. “It is.” 

“I want him to wake up, though,” San says. “So I can talk to him about it.” 

But as the day creeps on, Seonghwa remains unconscious. Hongjoong lingers in the med bay, glaring down at Seonghwa like he can force him awake through the power of his ire alone. Jongho eventually drags him away, pointing out that if they don’t go soon, it’s going to be too hot to travel. San and Mingi return to the arduous task of patching Mago’s many wounds. With only limited auxiliary power, the ship steadily turns into an oven and Wooyoung hates the constant sensation of sweat dripping down his skin, wetting his clothes and hair. 

He sleeps more than he wants to, his healing body demanding annoying amounts of rest. He forces Yunho and Yeosang to nap with him at least, after Mingi gripes at them to stop hovering and leave him and San to their work. Sometime in the early evening, he insists on changing everyone’s bandages and lets Yeosang take care of his. 

“What about Seonghwa hyung?” he asks when Yeosang finishes tying off a fresh wrapping around his shoulder. Seonghwa was stabbed, he remembers now, multiple times. 

“I haven’t changed them yet,” Yeosang says. “I bandaged him up when we first brought you guys back, but I wanted you to take a look when you woke up.” 

So Wooyoung pulls more supplies out of the cabinets and carefully removes the chestplate from Seonghwa’s prone form. He unties the front of the loose shirt that Yeosang dressed him in, baring his wounded shoulder—the same one as Wooyoung’s. 

“Look, hyung,” Wooyoung whispers, “we match.” 

He imagines Seonghwa sighing at him while also trying not to smile. It’s easier than dealing with Seonghwa’s pale, still face. He’s cold to the touch, alarmingly so, and absurdly Wooyoung thinks about a dead star floating in the black of space, all of its fire extinguished. He focuses on unwrapping the gauze covering Seonghwa’s shoulder, stained and hardened with dried blood. But he freezes when he pulls the last layer away because … there’s no wound. 

“San-ah,” he says urgently and San appears at his side. “He got stabbed, right? You saw it?” 

“Yeah,” San said. His gaze lands on Seonghwa and he sucks in an astonished breath. “What?” 

Yeosang joins them, frowning. “He was bleeding when Mingi and Jongho brought him in. I saw the wound. I disinfected it and soaked the bandages in sana.” 

And now there is only smooth flesh, no evidence of injury at all. 

Heart in his throat, Wooyoung strips away the bandages from Seonghwa’s other arm, where he was cut to the bone during their first fight with the Guardians. That wound is gone, as well, leaving behind only a faint, pale scar as though it’s been healed for months instead of still fresh. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Has this ever happened before?” San asks. 

Wooyoung flips through his memories of all the times Seonghwa has been injured. It’s unfortunately common in their line of work and like the rest of them Seonghwa has been stabbed, shot, cut, burned, and once nearly mauled by a wild animal. But there was no miraculous recovery from those injuries. Seonghwa healed just as slowly and arduously as the rest of them, taking the pain in stride and always protesting when someone tried to help him. 

“No,” he whispers. 

“It must have something to do with the Dust he consumed,” Yeosang guesses. “That’s the only explanation, right?” 

“So it didn’t poison him and now it’s healing his wounds?” San arches a dubious eyebrow. 

“His biology was altered,” Wooyoung points out. Otherwise the Dust would have killed him. “So I don’t know what the fuck is normal for him.” 

They’re back to waiting and Wooyoung is back to spending another night asleep in the med bay with the steady noise of the vital monitors to keep him company. He threatens violence if San or Yeosang try to spend the night with him, insisting that he’ll be fine and they need to rest, too, medic’s orders. 

Which of course means that it’s Yunho who limps down to check on him, somehow fitting his ridiculous frame onto the rickety chair. 

“I’ll go to bed,” he says in response to Wooyoung’s glare. “In a few minutes.” 

“Good, or I’ll tell Mingi.” 

Yunho winces. “You’re mean.” 

“Your collective stubbornness has driven me to drastic measures.” 

Yunho flicks him on his good shoulder and Wooyoung yelps, scowling at him. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Yunho says as though he didn’t jump off a ship with a broken leg three days ago. His expression softens. “And don’t carry everything by yourself either.” 

Wooyoung isn’t worried about himself. But Seonghwa…. “Yunho-yah,” he says, “he’s going to be okay, right?” 

“He’s strong,” Yunho says with firm, much-needed confidence. “He’ll come back to us.” 

“You should have seen him.” Wooyoung blinks up at the ceiling and feels a surge of gratitude when Yunho leans forward to take his hand. “He was terrifying.” 

“I saw the aftermath,” Yunho says. “It looked like an act of nature. Not a person.” 

“San’s angry.” 

“Do you blame him?” 

Wooyoung swallows. “No.” 

Yunho squeezes his hand. “We’re family.” It’s startling and gratifying, hearing Yunho declare that so easily. “He’ll come around.” 

Wooyoung lifts Yunho’s hand to kiss the back of it, affectionately scraping his teeth over Yunho’s knuckles. “Thank you,” he says, “for saving my life.” 

“I thought you were angry at me,” Yunho replies, amused. 

“I am. You were stupid. But I’m grateful, too. I can be both at once.” 

Yunho laughs softly. “Don’t thank me, Wooyoung-ah. If we start keeping track, we’ll go crazy.” 

“Still,” Wooyoung insists. Gods, nearly dying has made him sentimental and he hates it. “I’m glad you’re with us. Accept it.” 

Another gentle laugh. “Okay,” Yunho relents. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad, too.” He stands with a creak of his brace and a squeeze to Wooyoung’s hand. “Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Wooyoung lets him go and adjusts his blankets in the sudden quiet of the med bay, hoping that he doesn’t dream. 

_ _ 

A ruined canyon, rock strewn across red sand like shattered glass and a burning sun filling the deep blue of a cloudless sky. A figure in white stands amidst the detritus, robes fluttering in the wind, and Wooyoung expects a Guardian—faceless and chained and furious—but it is Seonghwa who turns to face him when he approaches. 

His eyes glow the same violent gold as the sun, unrecognizable in his face, and his hair has turned as white as his clothing. Wooyoung has the sudden, terrible instinct to kneel as he would before an altar. Before gods who never once saved them from war and ruin and empire. 

Wooyoung-ah, Seonghwa says and at least his voice is his own, not layered over by something otherworldly. He sounds sad, like he did on the ship, clutching a goodbye note in a trembling hand. 

Hyung, Wooyoung says. 

It’s so quiet in the canyon. Even their voices barely reach above a whisper, lost beneath the distant moan of the wind. 

There is a knife in Seonghwa’s hand. A ceremonial dagger with an ornate hilt, used by priests in temples making sacrifices to bless harvests, to ward off sickness, to soothe the fury of the sea or the skies. 

No, Wooyoung breathes and tries to step forward but finds that he cannot move. Tendrils of golden energy hold him locked in place, like an insect trapped in amber. 

I’m sorry, Seonghwa says, still with that deep, terrible sorrow. With the resignation of someone who accepted their fate long ago. I was always meant to be a sacrifice. 

You’re a god, Wooyoung gasps and in that moment, he believes it. Gods can’t be sacrifices. 

Seonghwa smiles at him—the same affectionate one that always graced his face when Wooyoung was being stubborn or contradictory, all love instead of the annoyance Wooyoung was expecting. It’s horrible to see it now. It feels like an ending. Like a farewell. 

They can be, Seonghwa says. They should be. What else can they do for their people? 

A burning palace, a burning city. A royal family who tried to reach the stars and became ash instead. San’s face, twisted in anger, talking of betrayal. Seonghwa, talking about his life as though it was a mistake to continue living it. 

Don’t do this, Wooyoung begs. Not you. 

It was meant to be this way, Seonghwa says. I’m sorry. 

And then he drags the dagger across his own throat. Wooyoung screams, watching in horror as golden blood spills down Seonghwa’s skin, staining his robes, dripping into the sand. It shimmers, like it’s meant to be beautiful, but all Wooyoung can focus on is the life draining from Seonghwa’s eyes, a sun burning out. 

As though tied to Seonghwa, the sky suddenly goes black overhead, plunging the canyon into inky darkness and Wooyoung can’t move, can’t reach for Seonghwa, can’t see anything but the glimmer of inhuman blood—

He wakes in the med bay, another rotation of a vicious cycle, and presses a hand to his heaving chest, trying to calm the frantic rabbit of his heart. It takes him several agonizing minutes to calm down, to banish the image of Seonghwa’s throat opening beneath a blade from his mind. Once the loud rasp of his breathing has faded, he realizes that it’s too quiet in the room. The steady beep of the chestplate is gone. 

Wooyoung jolts into a sitting position, ignoring the protest of his injuries, and turns to the other bed, bracing himself to see a corpse. For Seonghwa to have died in the night while Wooyoung slept, oblivious. 

The bed’s empty. 

Cursing, Wooyoung tumbles from his own bed, wrenching on his boots and coat. The chill in the air suggests that it’s still the middle of the night and the rest of the ship is probably asleep. His ribs, shoulder, and back ache fiercely as he moves, so he pauses to down two painkillers from the cabinet before he half-walks, half-staggers his way to the stairs, dragging himself up to the main cabin. 

 It’s empty, too, and the fear claws at his throat. Did Seonghwa leave them? Did Seonghwa go to die after all? Was Wooyoung’s dream a vision? 

He wouldn’t, Wooyoung thinks and ignores the insidious voice whispering that he doesn't truly know Seonghwa, that he never has. He unlocks the doors and descends the ramp into the desert night, breath hanging cloying and heavy in the air. 

A figure stands in the middle of the clearing, dressed in white, staring up at the array of foreign stars stretched out above their heads. Heart in his stomach, Wooyoung breaks into a frantic run, fighting against the shifting sand to maintain his balance. Seonghwa’s hair is black and there’s no dagger in his hand, but when he turns to Wooyoung the same sorrow from the dream is etched across his face.

Wooyoung doesn’t stop, afraid of being held in place by Seonghwa’s magic, and crashes right into him, throwing his arms around Seonghwa’s waist. Seonghwa gasps, staggering, and digs his fingers into Wooyoung’s coat. 

“Bastard,” Wooyoung hiccups, stupid tears already coming, spilling warm down his cheeks. “Fucking bastard.” 

“Wooyoung-ah,” Seonghwa murmurs. 

“How dare you,” Wooyoung continues, dragging Seonghwa closer, until all he can feel is Seonghwa’s body against every line of his own. How dare he make them worry, how dare he lie to them for so long, how dare he try to leave them, how dare he turn himself into something unrecognizable, even if it was to save them. 

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa says. He sounds exhausted and he feels suddenly frail in his loose-fitting clothing, barely protected from the cold. “I’m so sorry.” 

Wooyoung sniffs, stepping back so that he can wipe at his messy face. There is still a glimmer of gold in Seonghwa’s eyes, as though the power is slowly leaching out of him. “I didn’t know if you were going to wake up.” 

Seonghwa winces. “The Dust takes a lot out of my body. Usually, after exerting myself that much, it needs to recover so I end up in a … coma is not the right word, but it’s the best one I can think of. While my body recovers.” 

Wooyoung touches Seonghwa’s unblemished shoulder. “And it heals your wounds?” 

“Yes,” Seonghwa replies with a nod. “It’s a healing coma, of a sort. While the power drains out of my body, my wounds heal and my energy is gradually restored.” He lifts his hands, palm up, and slowly curls his fingers into fists. “It’s risky. There’s always a chance that it will be too much. That my body will break. My family has tried for generations to perfect it so that we wouldn’t be in so much danger,  but they never managed. Our bodies are too weak.” 

“The Dust should have killed you,” Wooyoung says. “I don’t know if I would call you weak.” Someone weak cannot topple an entire canyon with a touch of their hand. 

Seonghwa smiles at him, still so sad. “I suppose. It did take generations of trial and error to combat the Dust poisoning. Perhaps if we’d had another century, we would have been able to make true superhumans.” His mouth twists, bitter. “Braxis just decided to use machines.” 

And won the war, as a result. 

“Well you definitely managed to beat the machines,” Wooyoung says. 

Seonghwa blinks. “I buried them … right?” 

“Yeah. Brought a whole rock wall down on them.” 

He can feel the weight of Seonghwa’s perceptive gaze, even in the darkness. “I scared you.” 

Wooyoung doesn’t see the point of denying it. “Yeah. You felt … impossible.” 

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa says again and his hands land on Wooyoung’s shoulders. “I’m still me, Wooyoung-ah, I promise. What happened out there, it won’t happen again. It was a last resort. I never wanted any of you to know.” 

“Why?” Wooyoung asks. Seonghwa said it wasn’t about trust and Wooyoung believes him, but it still hurts that Seonghwa kept such a big secret from them for so long. 

“Because I didn’t want you to look at me differently,” Seonghwa murmurs. “To look at me like this.” 

Like Seonghwa is impossible. Like he’s become more than human, so distant that none of them can reach him anymore. 

Wooyoung huffs and wrenches Seonghwa into another hug. “Idiot hyung,” he snaps, blinking away a fresh wave of tears. “You’re still ours. Didn’t I tell you that already? So what if you’re kind of terrifying. That doesn’t mean you’re not ours.” 

Seonghwa’s breath hitches and he buries his face in Wooyoung’s shoulder, hunching his taller frame to fit into Wooyoung’s embrace. “I don’t deserve that,” he mumbles. 

“You saved our lives,” Wooyoung points out. 

“I doomed my planet,” Seonghwa says. 

“You’re going to have to talk to Sannie about that one.” 

Seonghwa flinches in his arms, but doesn’t argue. Wooyoung believes that the two of them will drain any lingering bad blood, they love each other too much for anything less. Let the sand consume it like it does everything else and they can leave it buried. 

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Seonghwa mumbles, pulling away at last. “And that I didn’t tell you when I woke up. I needed some air.” 

“I suppose I can forgive you,” Wooyoung says with a dramatic sigh. “Though a little warning about an impending coma would have been nice.” 

“I wasn’t sure I was going to live long enough to reach that stage,” Seonghwa admits and offers a sad smile to pacify the glare that Wooyoung shoots at him. “But you’re right. I should have warned you. As our medic.” 

“And as someone who cares about you and was extremely stressed about the fact that you were mysteriously unconscious for three days.” 

Another wince. “That too.” 

“Good.” Wooyoung says and rocks up on his toes to press a fierce kiss to Seonghwa’s temple, ignoring Seonghwa’s stunned squawk. “Now come back inside. It’s fucking freezing out here and you just woke up from a coma.” 

Seonghwa blinks, as if just registering the piercing chill in the air. “Right. And you’re recovering, too, you shouldn’t be out here.” 

Ah, there’s the hyung that Wooyoung knows. 

Together, they hobble back to the ship and Seonghwa helps Wooyoung down to the med bay. Apart from lingering exhaustion, he seems to be perfectly fine and Wooyoung resents his healing abilities when his own body continues to ache, protesting even small movements. Seonghwa coaxes him into bed, fussing over the blankets in an echo of Hongjoong two nights ago. 

“Hyung, I’m not five,” Wooyoung says as Seonghwa tucks the edges of the blankets around him to ward off the cold. 

“I know,” Seonghwa says, not quite meeting his eyes. “But it’s been … just let me be your hyung, okay?” 

Let me take care of you. 

Wooyoung supposes that Seonghwa is craving any kind of normalcy after the chaos of the last few days—their world constantly tilting on new fulcrums as they struggled to survive. 

“Fine,” Wooyoung mutters, relaxing against the mattress so Seonghwa can finish bundling him up. “Just this once.” 

Seonghwa’s mouth flickers through a grateful smile and Seonghwa’s cold palm rests against his forehead. “Sleep, Wooyoung-ah,” he says. “I’ll be here.” 

This time, Wooyoung mercifully doesn’t dream. 

_ _ 

He wakes with the sun, the ship already starting to heat, and finds Seonghwa sitting on the other bed with his legs crossed in a meditative pose. It’s an exercise Wooyoung has seen him do several times before when he’s trying to re-ground himself after an ordeal. Sometimes, he’s even managed to convince a few of the others to join him, though Wooyoung’s never been able to sit still for any extended length of time so always declined. 

Seonghwa’s eyes flutter open when Wooyoung gets up and Wooyoung’s relieved to see that the last of the golden energy has drained away, leaving only warm brown. 

“Hyung,” he croaks, shoving the blankets off to escape the rising temperature. Seonghwa is off the bed and at his side in an instant. “‘M fine,” he says and bats Seonghwa’s hands away. “I slept. No nightmares.” 

Seonghwa’s brow furrows. “You were having nightmares?” 

Wooyoung laughs. “Hyung, we all have nightmares, don’t we?” 

The ship is usually haunted by at least one of them late at night, chased from bed by demons and ghosts. Yunho cleaning weapons in the cargo hold with shaking hands. Mingi running through pointless checklists in the cockpits, murmuring commands like an anchoring prayer. San moving through tul after tul in the open space of the galley, bare feet light on the metal floor and muscles knotted with tension. Yeosang drowning himself in radio chatter at the comms station, flicking through channels with restless fingers. Jongho pouring over maps that he’s already memorized, crumpling the paper when he grips a little too hard. Seonghwa drinking tea that’s supposed to help you sleep but only makes him grimace, knocking back cup after cup like a man discovering water in the desert. Hongjoong charting hypothetical courses across the black of space, crafting new pathways to avoid the empire. 

And Wooyoung cooking in the galley, preparing food that he has no intention of eating just to keep his mind and body busy. 

Seonghwa sighs at him, deflating. “I suppose you’re right.” 

“The point is that I’m fine,” Wooyoung says, pushing Seonghwa back so that he can get out of bed. “And someone is going to come to check on me any minute so prepare for chaos.” 

For a moment, Seonghwa looks like he’s seriously considering pretending to be unconscious again, but then he grimaces and straightens his shoulders. “Perhaps, we should just go to them.” 

That’s fair. Wooyoung would like to wrangle them all into eating a proper meal because he doubts that anyone has been taking care of themselves, too busy repairing Mago and figuring out the best route to leave this cursed planet very far behind. Preferably before the empire notices three missing Guardians and comes looking. Seonghwa finally waking up might just get them around a table for more than five minutes. 

“Let’s go,” he says and offers his arm. 

“Wait, we should change your bandages first,” Seonghwa says. 

Mother hen. 

But the gauze is starting to itch so Wooyoung surrenders. Seonghwa is quick and efficient as he checks the brace and replaces the wrappings around Wooyoung’s shoulder. He frowns at the state of Wooyoung’s bruised back and insists on rubbing salve over the worst of it before he refastens Wooyoung’s shirt and deems him ready to leave. 

Upstairs, it’s Yeosang who notices them first—on his way to the navigation table with a mug of tea in his hands that slips from suddenly limp fingers to clatter across the floor, spilling liquid everywhere. The sound of the mug falling draws Yunho’s attention and he turns around, freezing when his gaze lands on them like he’s seen a ghost. 

Seonghwa gives a pathetic little wave, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Good morning.” 

It’s Yunho who moves first, recovering enough to cross the cabin in two long strides and yank Seonghwa into a hug with the same desperate force Wooyoung used last night. Seonghwa wheezes in shock but gets his arms around Yunho’s shoulders, holding him just as tightly. It feels like a strange repeat of Wooyoung’s own return to the land of living, especially when Yeosang staggers over to the comms station to radio Mingi and San outside. 

“Hyung,” Yunho says, actually sounding choked up. Wooyoung’s suddenly terrified the universe might be ending. 

“I’m okay,” Seonghwa breathes into Yunho’s shoulder. “I’m here.” 

I won’t leave, Wooyoung hears. 

“Thank the gods,” Yunho whispers, stepping back with a watery smile. Yep, their doom is imminent. 

Yeosang drifts closer, face schooled back into his usual calm, affable mask. “I knew you’d be fine,” he says even as he hugs Seonghwa, too, pulling him closer than he normally would. 

“I appreciate your faith in me,” Seonghwa says, voice laced with welcome amusement. 

The door hisses open, emitting a fresh wave of heat and Mingi and San, stamping sand from their boots. 

“Seonghwa hyung,” Mingi says, yanking his goggles down around his neck and hurrying over to sweep Seonghwa into a careful hug. “I really have no idea what happened, but I’m glad you’re okay.” 

“Thank you,” Seonghwa says, cupping the back of Mingi’s head to briefly touch their foreheads together. “I’ll explain it all eventually.” 

Mingi nods, satisfied and trusting that Seonghwa will keep his word. When he steps aside, San hangs back, a storm on his face and hands slowly curling into fists at his side. Wooyoung bites his tongue, fighting down his instinct to intervene, to attempt to smooth things over or prompt San into forgiveness he might not be ready for. 

It’s Seonghwa that approaches first, Yunho and Yeosang standing aside so that it’s just him and San in the middle of the cabin. 

“San-ah,” Seonghwa says and then shocks them all by sinking to his knees, prostrating himself on the floor in front of San. 

A prince, bowing to the subject that he failed. 

“I’m so sorry,” Seonghwa says, forehead pressed to the warm metal near San’s boots. “I know that will never be enough, but I’m sorry.” 

San stares down at him in surprise. 

“I betrayed you,” Seonghwa continues, voice thick with sorrow. “I abandoned you and lied to you. I understand if that can’t be forgiven.” 

San scrubs a trembling hand over his face and Seonghwa doesn’t lift his gaze from the floor. Two survivors of a broken, dead planet, carrying with them all the ghosts of the lost. 

“Were you really supposed to die?” San finally says. 

Seonghwa tenses. But he offers the truth. “Yes. That was my mission. To bury what knowledge couldn’t be destroyed and make sure my body was never recovered by the empire.” 

“You burned in your palace instead of fighting them.” 

Finally Seonghwa pushes himself up, though he stays on his knees. “Yes,” he says, no excuses. “We didn’t think it was a battle we would win, in the end. We thought it was better that our secrets stay out of imperial hands. But we sacrificed our world in the process.” 

“You were gods,” San whispers. 

“No,” Seonghwa says with that infinite, terrible sadness. “San-ah, we were just pathetic humans reaching for things we could never hope to understand.” 

“I saw what you did. In the canyons.  A human can’t do that.” 

“No,” Seonghwa relents. “Maybe we ended up becoming monsters instead.” 

Tears well in San’s eyes. “I miss it,” he hiccups. “The city at night. Do you remember? When all the lights would glow along the rivers like fireflies and the birds would sing in the trees—everything so quiet that it felt like walking through a dream.” 

“Yes,” Seonghwa says. “I remember. It was beautiful.” A wistful smile breaks briefly across his face. “I snuck out of the palace and into the city when I could, just to bask in all the light.” 

San crashes to his knees in front of Seongwa, dragging him close with a hitching sob. Seonghwa lets himself be manhandled, tilts his head so that San can press his face into the crook of Seonghwa’s neck as he cries. 

“I thought I was alone,” he sobs, heartbroken. “So many died. Everyone died. I thought I was alone.” 

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa says again. “I was trying to protect you but that’s not an excuse. I’m sorry.” 

“I hated you,” San continues and Seonghwa flinches, but doesn’t pull away from the embrace. “I hated the monarchy. But I look at you and I just see my hyung.” 

Seonghwa dares to reach up and return San’s embrace, arm a firm anchor across San’s heaving back. “I’m still your hyung, San-ah. I promise. I may have his abilities and his ghosts, but the prince is dead. I’m just Seonghwa now. That’s all that’s left.” 

“I love you,” San says and Wooyoung breathes a quiet sigh of relief, seeing the same emotion reflected on Yeosang, Mingi, and Yunho’s faces. “Don’t ever scare me like this again. Don’t ever lie to me again.” 

“I won’t,” Seonghwa says, heavy with emotion. “I swear.” 

San claws at Seonghwa’s back, years of grief bleeding from him. A wound that never healed. “I don’t forgive your family,” he says and Seonghwa accepts this with closed eyes and a tiny nod. “But I forgive you.” 

Now it’s Seonghwa’s turn to cry, silent tears slipping down his cheeks from beneath his closed lids. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you. I love you too.” 

San shifts so that he can press his forehead to Seonghwa’s, share his tears, and Wooyoung decides that it’s time to give them a little privacy, herding the others out of the cabin and down to the galley. 

“We could all use a break,” he says, ignoring the fact that he just woke up, “and proper food. I know none of you have been eating.” 

A series of guilty looks traded amongst Mingi, Yunho, and Yeosang. 

“We’ve been busy,” Mingi protests. “The ship—” 

“I know,” Wooyoung says, letting them off easy just this once. “But you can take an hour to have a meal now. Non-negotiable.” 

Yeosang surrenders first. “What do you want us to do?” 

“Just sit at the table and—” 

“No,” Yeosang says. “If you’re cooking, I’m helping.” 

Wooyoung wants to argue that a stomach wound is different from a damaged shoulder and some measly cracked ribs, but Yeosang has his stubborn face on again and Wooyoung is too tired to fight. 

“Fine,” he relents. “I’m gonna make soup. You can chop vegetables.” 

He sets Yunho to work preparing the meat and drafts Mingi into helping him make the broth and cook the rice. They fall into an easy rhythm, all used to serving kitchen duty even if Wooyoung always remains head cook and supervisor. It feels like a blessing: this sudden slice of normalcy. To see Yunho peer over Mingi’s shoulder and tell him that he isn’t stirring fast enough, offering a disarming smile when Mingi glares at him. To listen to Yeosang hum quietly to himself as he cuts up vegetables with rare, careful concentration. 

Seonghwa and San arrive just as they’re laying plates on the table, sporting matching red-rimmed eyes and tired, reassuring smiles. 

“We’re okay,” San murmurs in response to Wooyoung’s questioning glance. He looks like a huge weight has been lifted from him—spine a little straighter, face not so lined with exhaustion, gaze less haunted. Maybe some of the dead were finally laid to rest. “We’ll be okay.” 

Seonhwa nods, naked relief on his face. Freer of the ghosts, too. 

“Good,” Wooyoung says. “Help Mingi with the rice.” 

“Sure,” San says and drifts over to Mingi’s side, shifting up on his toes so that he can rest his chin on Mingi’s shoulder. Mingi frowns at him, but hunches a little so that San can settle into a more comfortable position, accepting the arms that San also winds around his waist. 

Seonghwa takes over setting the table with another gentle smile. 

The soup turns out fine, the rice only a little burnt, and Wooyoung’s happy to watch them all eat, seated around the same table like a family again. 

“We have a course,” Yunho says once he’s mostly done with his soup. He has more color back in his face, fresh alertness in his gaze, even as he surreptitiously massages his leg under the table, adjusting the brace to sit more comfortably against his thigh. “It’s going to take some doing, since we have to avoid most of the main waygates, but we should be able to complete the drop-off within a week if nothing goes wrong.” 

“Nothing had better go wrong,” Mingi mutters angrily. “We’ve had enough ‘going wrong’ to last at least the next six months.” 

Wooyoung wholeheartedly agrees with that, but space is a dangerous place. The empire now controls all the main trade routes, including the waygates that allow FTL travel and protection from the giant, terrifying creatures that lurk in the deep black of uncharted space—supposedly birthed from dying stars. Traveling along smuggler’s paths keeps them sheltered from the eyes of the empire, but it will mean brushing up against those haunted regions and it will take them twice as long to reach their destination. 

Good thing they’ve been doing it so long that Wooyoung trusts Mingi, San, and Yunho’s navigation abilities. Their captain, too, is especially good at choosing routes that skirt the worst of the danger while still avoiding imperial reach. 

Yeosang pats Mingi on the shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he says, sounding placating and not very sincere. 

Mingi shakes his head and changes the topic. “Repairs are almost done. We should be able to leave by tomorrow.” 

San nods and leans over in his chair to rap his knuckles gently against one of the bulkheads. “Mago’s a strong lady. Once she’s back in fighting shape, we should be able to make good time.” 

“Hongjoong radioed earlier,” Yeosang adds, checking the time. “He and Jongho should be back soon with more food and medical supplies for the trip.” 

Seonghwa’s jaw tightens at the mention of Hongjoong, but he doesn’t say anything. Wooyoung can’t imagine that conversation is going to be any easier than the one with San. Maybe this string of near-death experiences will finally prompt them to confess their feelings for each other. 

Ha.

“We won’t have a lot of weapons stores,” Yunho says, drawing Wooyoung’s attention away from Seonghwa. “So we’ll have to be extra careful.” 

“Keep our heads down, go as fast as we can, get paid, and then resupply somewhere else,” Seonghwa summarizes with a nod of agreement. 

“Easy,” Wooyoung says with a bravado he doesn’t entirely feel. At least they’ll be leaving Erimos behind. He never wants to see this desert again. 

“Yeah,” Yunho agrees, rolling his shoulders before standing to carry his dishes over to the washer. “Easy.” 

_ _ 

Wooyoung cleans up the med bay, making room for new supplies and taking an updated inventory of what they’ve depleted. They’re low on sana and painkillers, antiseptic, gauze, and stronger bandages, but restock of at least some of that will come with Hongjoong and Jongho. The rest Wooyoung can acquire on a black market. Once that’s done, he performs a similar check on the galley and their food supplies. Cleaning and inventory is mindless, comforting, and if he has to sit down a few times until the ache of his injured body subsides, then that’s his business. At least the others are mostly preoccupied with final repairs and putting Mago back in order. Yunho hasn’t emerged from the cargo hold in hours, probably meticulously cleaning and cataloging every weapon they have. 

When mid-afternoon approaches, the heat gets unbearable enough that Wooyoung wrangles his hair into a small bun at the top of his head, trying a bandana across his forehead to keep the rest off his face and soak up some of the sweat. There’s little else for him to do but he can’t fathom going back to sleep, so he decides to head up to the main deck to pester Yeosang, Mingi, and San. Maybe he can help Mingi with maintenance checks. Or hold tools for San, who’s spent most of the day out on the hull. 

But he hears Hongjoong’s voice when he’s halfway up the stairs, icy with anger, and quickens his pace, bursting into the cabin to see Hongjoong standing just inside the doors, still wearing his pack and poncho, arms crossed over his chest and gaze piercing.

Seonghwa stands a few paces away, back stiff and hands tense at his sides. 

“You’re up,” Hongjoong is saying. 

“Yes,” Seonghwa replies with diplomatic calm. “I woke up last night.” 

“And no one thought to radio me?” Hongjoong asks, casting a glare around the cabin. Yeosang quickly turns away, pulling his headphones back over his ears. Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. 

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he says. “I knew you’d be back today.” 

Hongjoong blinks at him in disbelief. “Disturb me? You were in a coma for three days and you think letting me know you’re okay would have disturbed me?” 

He looks ready to fight. To punch Seonghwa in the face. To hold him and never, ever let go. There is too much grief and love in his expression and a pang runs through Wooyoung’s chest at the sight of it. 

Seonghwa hesitates, clearly taken aback by the emotion in Hongjoong’s voice. “I—” He sucks in a grounding breath. “I didn’t think—” 

“That I would care?” Hongjoong asks, sounding devastated now. “You didn’t think I would care?” Behind him, Jongho glances between him and Seonghwa with a furrowed brow while Yeosang and Mingi stubbornly ignore the unfolding argument. 

“I know there were more important things,” Seonghwa hedges. 

“There weren’t,” Hongjoong says and Seonghwa almost gapes at him. 

Wooyoung holds his breath. Is this it? Finally? 

“I see,” Seonghwa says, recovering. “Well, I’m alright, Hongjoong-ah. You don’t have to worry anymore.” 

“I always worry,” Hongjoong says, grumbling under his breath. Then he crosses the cabin and puts a hand on Seonghwa’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “I’m glad,” he says, calmer now. Mostly their captain again. “That you’re alright. We need to talk about … a lot of things. But you’re okay. That’s the most important thing.” 

Seonghwa softens, expression almost wondrous. “Thank you,” he murmurs, briefly touching Hongjoong’s shoulder, too. It might be the most affectionate they’ve ever been with each other outside of moments of distress and comfort. “I’m glad you’re alright, too. That we all made it.” 

Hongjoong nods and then he’s fully back in captain mode, shrugging off his pack and going to ask for a status report from Mingi. Wooyoung deflates. No confession today, but he can see it on their horizon, creeping closer and closer. They’ll get there eventually. Or he’ll just snap and lock them in a closet until they talk about it. Whichever comes first.

Seonghwa bends to pick up Hongjoong’s pack but Jongho appears at his side in almost a blink, taking it from him. “I’ve got it, hyung,” he says. “You’re still recovering.” 

“Oh,” Seonghwa says. “Actually my wounds healed.” 

Jongho blinks at him in astonishment. “What?” 

“Part of the coma thing,” Wooyoung chimes in. “Apparently he has miracle healing powers too.” 

Seonghwa grimaces. “Only after I’ve consumed Dust and used my abilities. It’s not a common thing. We never managed to figure out how to make it a common thing.” 

“Still impressive,” Jongho says and gleefully dumps the pack back in Seonghwa’s arms. “You can carry this, then, hyung. I just walked all the way from the outpost and I’m tired.” 

Seonghwa rolls his eyes, but accepts the pack, mouth twitching towards a smile. “Fine, Jongho-yah. I’m glad you made it back safe.” 

Jongho gives him a brief, one-armed hug, and they disappear into the bowels of the ship together to unpack the supplies. 

“Well,” Yeosang says mildly from the comm station. “That actually went well.” 

Wooyoung laughs. 

Finally, finally he believes that they’re going to be okay. 

_ _ 

That night, he sits with San and Yeosang in the quiet of the galley—their final night on Erimos filled with numbing cold and the distant roar of a hunting dragon. 

“I can’t wait to get off this rock,” Wooyoung says, cradling his cup of tea mostly for the warmth it seeps into his palms. “I never want to see sand again.” 

“I don’t think that’s realistic,” Yeosang says, taking a contemplative sip of his drink.

San has attached himself to Yeosang’s side—arm across his shoulders, heads tipped together—but all of their legs are tangled up under the table and Wooyoung is touching Yeosang’s free arm, pushing back his sleeve to stroke absent patterns against bare skin. It feels good to be this close to them both and not have to worry about death breathing down their necks. 

“I can dream,” he tells Yeosang and San laughs. 

The sound fades quickly, his expression turning serious as he regards them both. “I still can’t believe you were going to die without me.” 

Yeosang winces, exchanges a guilty look with Wooyoung. “I told you,” Wooyoung says. “You would have done the same thing. Don’t bother denying it.” 

“I know, I would have,” San agrees. “I’m just still processing the fact that I almost lost both of you.” 

Yeosang elbows him. “You didn’t. So don’t dwell on it.” 

“I’m trying not to, but—” San makes a strangled sound. “I love you both, you know that, right?” 

Of course they do. It’s an unspoken thread that has woven between them for years, growing stronger and stronger as each one passes. Wooyoung loved Yeosang when they were boys, head full of childish dreams of a future that war made impossible. He loves him differently now, it’s not a soft love anymore. Loss and death sharpened it into a blade, sparked it into a burning sun in his chest. And he feels the same for San. He would do anything for them. He would turn to ash if he lost them. 

“Yeah—” he tries, faltering. They don’t talk about this. He’s never had the words for this. 

Maybe they don’t need words, though. Because San suddenly takes Yeosang’s mug from his hands, setting it on the table as he leans in and presses their mouths together. It’s a fierce, aching kiss—the kind that Wooyoung has imagined giving them both a thousand times. Yeosang makes a surprised noise against San’s lips, but then he’s lifting his hands to cup San’s face and kiss him back with just as much fervor, as though he’s also been craving this for years, as though he has a dam finally breaking loose inside of him, too. 

They look beautiful together. Wooyoung always knew they would. 

San pulls away with a gasp of breath and turns to wrench Wooyoung in by the front of his shirt. Wooyoung nearly topples off his chair, catching himself with a hand on San’s thigh, and then San is kissing him, too. He tastes like bitter tea and his lips are warm and slick from Yeosang, still a little chapped by the unforgiving desert heat. Wooyoung loses himself in them instantly, shifting closer into San’s space so that he can tilt his head and get his tongue in San’s mouth. 

It’s perfect, it’s nearly everything. He can feel the threads knotting his lungs and chest unraveling, allowing him to breathe like he hasn’t for years. This might be a mistake, fully opening himself up to this all-consuming love. In their world, under the fist of an empire, love is often a weapon to be turned against you, a weakness to exploit. 

But in this moment, he doesn’t care. He loves, and he wants to revel in it. 

He pulls back from San, taking in his wide eyes and reddened mouth—the pretty flush of his cheeks and the fear and love in his gaze. Then he turns to Yeosang, who is watching them with an inscrutable expression. 

“Come here,” he rasps, beckoning Yeosang closer. 

Yeosang stands, stepping around San into Wooyoung’s space. “Me too?” he asks quietly and Wooyoung sobs a laugh as he gets his hands on Yeosang’s waist. 

“Idiot,” he says. “Of course you too. It’s always been you.” 

Yeosang’s eyebrows climb higher on his forehead. “Always?” 

“Always,” Wooyoung confirms. “Ever since we met in middle school.” 

“Wow,” Yeosang says, wry. “Since middle school? If I had known you were so gone for me I would—” 

Wooyoung can’t let him joke about this. Not about this. So he leans in and shuts him up with a searing kiss, moving his hands from Yeosang’s waist to his cheeks, holding his head in place so he can push past his startled, parted lips and tangle their tongues together. 

And just like that, he’s stepped off the last precipice, stripped away the last pretense. There is nothing platonic or casual about this. He can feel all of his fiery, jagged love pouring out of him and into Yeosang. Can feel Yeosang responding in kind—fingers digging into his hips, mouth moving frantically against his own. It feels better than he dared to imagine it could: this knowledge that Yeosang loves him back just as desperately. 

When they finally part for air, San is there, touching their faces, their hair. Lips on their skin—their jaws, their cheeks—and then their mouths again. Yeosang first, followed by Wooyoung, and repeat. 

“Now that we’re on the same page,” he murmurs between kisses. “Don’t leave me behind again.” 

Wooyoung knows it's not a promise any of them can really make. But he kisses San and then Yeosang and says, “I’ll do my best.” 

“Me too,” Yeosang agrees, looking adorably disheveled, eyes brighter than stars. “And this?” 

He gestures between the three of them. San strokes their faces, offering them a tender smile. “We keep figuring it out.” 

They’ll have more things to talk about. They’ll have to shape this relationship step by step, but Wooyoung has faith in them. This is a love that he’s certain is going to endure. It’s already survived so much. 

“And maybe we can keep it quiet for now?” Wooyoung asks. “Some members of this crew are going to be insufferable.” 

Yeosang grimaces. “Yeah. Agreed.” 

“But first, we kiss some more,” San declares and well….

Wooyoung isn’t going to argue with that, already leaning in to touch them again—certain that he’s never going to get enough. 

_ _ 

The next morning, they all assume their usual stations at dawn: San and Mingi in the cockpit, Yeosang at the comms station, Yunho and Jongho manning the rear artillery, Wooyoung on navigation, making sure they stay on their charted course, and Seonghwa and Hongjoong standing side by side overseeing the crew as captain and first mate. 

“Pre-flight checks complete, captain,” Mingi reports. “We’re good to go.” 

Hongjoong raises his chin, hands clasped behind his back. “Everyone ready?” 

A chorus of enthusiastic yeses echoes through the cabin and down the radio from Yunho and Jongho. Hongjoong smiles, exchanging a fleeting glance with Seonghwa. 

“Then get us out of here, Mingi-yah, San-ah.” 

“Gladly,” San says. 

He and Mingi work in silent tandem, flipping switches, turning dials, and Mago hums around them as her engine finishes powering up and the thrusters engage, lifting them free of the sand. Mingi carefully maneuvers them out from beneath the rock outcropping and then they’re climbing rapidly towards the sky. 

Wooyoung leans back in his seat to watch the canyons of Erimos sprawl below them, growing and more and more distant, until there is just an endless expanse of red, rippling like an ocean. Seonghwa’s hand lands on his shoulder as they break the cloud barrier, hurtling into the upper levels of Ermios’s atmosphere. 

Wooyoung glances up at him—a shared expression of relief, of: we made it. 

And then they are free of the atmosphere and drifting amongst the stars in the endless expanse of space. 

A sigh runs through the cabin. 

San flicks more controls, adjusting their trajectory and guiding them out of the planet’s orbit. 

“Orbit cleared,” Mingi calls.

Wooyoung enters a few commands into the nav console. “Route locked in. ETA to drop off location: four days.” 

“Alright,” Hongjoong says. “Get us there safely. Keep an ear out for imperial chatter.” 

Yeosang nods and gives a thumbs up from the comms station, head already bent as he monitors the channels coming through now that they’re clear of any interference from Erimos. 

Four days. A meandering route through uncharted space. 

Wooyoung thinks of the shattered Guardians, of how fiercely they all fought, of everything they’ve survived even before the desert, and has faith. 

He may not believe in gods, but he believes in them. In the eight of them and everything they have the potential to accomplish, in the movement they’re trying to foster, in the lives they’re trying to save. 

And that will be enough. 

After all, Hongjoong says in a dream, in the dark of Mago’s cabin—smile a blade, eyes a sun, all empires end, don’t they?

The stars tumble past beyond the viewport as Mago picks up speed, pinwheels of light. 

They shake off their wounds, they bury their ghosts,  and they carry on. They keep fighting. 

There is nothing else to do.