lost, in asphyxia

He plunges headfirst through the blood-specked surface, the collision so strong he blacks out for a second. The descent is cold and listless, Noah’s body limp against the crashing tides. He’s carried like freshwater fish except he’s barely conscious to ride the waves.

The first he registers is how numbingly cold this is – sunk in sub-zero temperature, his body racked with shudders that don’t show. But he’s always had a propensity for coldness and so, he remains impassive, merely staring out into the vast sea. It is pitch black, completely empty – not a trace of light, none of those ugly fluorescents that decorated the vessel.

It seems he’s thrown so far he won’t make it back. Quite typical for him, really, because Noah is prone to drifting away. Ten meters, one hundred meters, maybe one thousand more before the waters propel him in a cyclone. His body is spasming with the current, but his expression is utterly, incomprehensibly calm.

His silver hair flows upward in motion, dainty and elegant, not at all reflective of the way he’s plummeting down too grimly, too quickly. A trickle of blood comes from an open cut on his forearm, his collar, his cheek – so many shallow cuts that seem to ooze redder the more he thinks about them.

Red swirls drift along with his body. Noah is embraced in blood curdles that remind more of shackles. A distant past grabs him by chokehold and deliriously, he sees a familiar woman.

In the depths of the sea, a glowing figure. Beautiful blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes – the color of his own, except hers are graced with a veil of mania.

“Come on,” she tells him, her volume soft as if to lure. “Come with me, Noah.”

She’s specter-white, even paler than he is, and when she parts her mouth to beckon him once more, her features have distorted into an uncanny mix of human and animal. She has grown a pair of sharp, angular ears that settle awkwardly by the base of her head. The displacement is odd, but she looks even more feral in dead zone.

Her head rotates and she morphs into a monster with protruding fangs and glowing, vertical pupils.

“'Come on!'” She starts to scream now. “'I’m going to kill you, Noah! I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill you, I will…'”

“I’m here,” he tries to say, though all that escapes from his mouth are water bubbles.

“…going to kill you… to kill… you…” Her voice softens and then there is sorrow that settles on her gorgeous face – somehow, still pleasing to Noah’s eyes. “You should not have been born.”

Noah’s lips curve. Resignation and pain all in one. If he could, he would’ve chuckled.

‘I know.’

He doesn’t see the phantasm in her form anymore, but it may be because he’s a second from death, drowning in a place no one can reach. He supposes that this is how he’ll go – alone in the middle of nowhere. Coordinates lost.

A dim, white light shines onto his body. Then, a firm, rough hand grabs him by the arm. Noah doesn’t quite register the sensation, but the way he’s handled is not gentle at all – he’s 'hauled' into the person’s grasp, his body pressured into moving. Noah stares emotionlessly in front of him, too weakened to care.

He’s barely conscious but he can tell apart Yang Rong from tens of thousands of people. Jet-black hair, a harrowing pair of green eyes. Easily recognizable.

Even more crimson blood streams out from where they gather. Yang Rong’s injured as well, but whatever wounds he bears do not deter him from swimming through the waves – not effortlessly, but it’s the most he can do with Noah weighing him down.

Noah loses to a rogue wave that cuts off his sight and, with his breathing long compromised, he succumbs to the mercy of the man who’d reached out to him. The only sense of security he feels is, ironically, coming from the same person he fears.

---

He weaves in and out of consciousness. A delayed awareness of being thrown onto a hard surface. Small snippets of his backpack being thrown aside, his coat being stripped off, a palm on his chest, rough presses on his body.

His lungs convulse in pain, he’s so weak, he 'can’t breathe,' and how unsightly he must be – lying pathetically on his back, unresponsive, his lips pale and blue. Silver hair is glued onto his forehead and he’s completely, glacially drenched. His mouth is forcibly parted and then he feels warm breaths by his lips.

The resuscitation is done cleanly and efficiently, though it’s a matter of 'hours' – or so he feels – before he snaps back into activity. Noah gasps and chokes so uncontrollably he collapses to the side, held stable only by Yang Rong… who is spewing out a string of exceptionally colorful expletives.

“'—Fucking idiot!'” The man’s voice runs on the background like a recording set on replay. “If you don’t know how to swim, then 'stay with me!' Hang onto me by the hip, arm in arm, ass to ass, alright?! Don’t give me more crap about staying away from you because you 'admittedly do not care for your own life!' How many more times must I save you, huh?! And what the fuck were you doing zoning out? Are you not even going to 'try,' for Christ’s sake – are your scrawny arms for decoration or what?!”

The scolding doesn’t end. Noah hears it muted. His eyelids are still shut tightly, his body trembling beyond control. Each cough brings up more saltwater from his throat, though he might as well be coughing up blood from how painful it is.

“Maybe you can tell me what you were 'thinking' about.” The colonel continues to speak. “For someone so normally feisty, you were certainly prepared to drown.”

Noah brings a shaky hand to quell his coughs – they sound ugly even to his own ears. Yang Rong, resigned and still furious, helps him to a sitting position. Noah belatedly realizes they’re on a boat that’s rocking away to an unknown destination. The tides have stabilized, but the rain hasn’t stopped. Streaks of lightning set the skies aflare. The inclement weather rages on.

“And if I were any later, you 'would' have died, Noah.” The colonel looks more angry than he ever did. Under the gray looming clouds, his countenance has a certain untamedness. His hair is in wild disarray, half of his bangs slicked up and the other half dangled from wetness. There is more gruffness in his clenched jaw, pursed lips, hardened eyes. He leans forward and says lowly, dangerously, “Is that what you wanted?”

Noah’s coughing fit subsides after a grueling minute. He droops sideways, completely exhausted, collapsing onto the colonel’s body. His speech comes out rasped and gurgled. “…Nn, I—"

“'Don’t you dare speak.'” Yang Rong’s gaze is chilling. “It was a rhetorical question. Keep your pretty mouth shut, Noah. You can spew your excuses to me the next morning, then I’ll decide whether or not to accept them.”

They settle in lull after that. Yang Rong, still pissed off, mans the boat by himself while Noah tries his best to keep his own breathing under control. In a different scenario, their positions would be downright flustering – Noah’s body leaning sideways, his head drooped far down onto the colonel’s shoulder, plastering onto the wet, thin fabric of his shirt. Yang Rong is paddling with one arm, allowing him to compromise his left side.

The waters sway erratically as they row. Wintry gusts carry stronger droplets of rain that feel more like hail. Noah’s breaths are abnormally hot, but his body is frost cold. The motion sickness hits him harder when he lacks oxygen.

“…Yang Rong,” he murmurs weakly, burrowing his face further in. “It is cold.”

Yang Rong, too, is not any warmer. Still, the man cradles the back of his head, pulling him in closer to share what little body heat they have. If Noah’s state weren’t so miserable, he would’ve balked at the scent of vetiver and that sweet, coppery blood mixed in with saltwater. Yang Rong gives off a heavy alpha musk.

“…I know,” the man says with a sigh. “Be good and bear with it for now.”

Yang Rong places a jacket on top of him. The black uniform is also drenched completely.

Alongside the thrumming of rain and heavy splashes come softer breathing, heartbeats that are eased to calm. Strangely harmonic, though it may be in Noah’s daze that he finds everything subdued tonight. Yang Rong, on the other hand, is more riled up than usual. His posture is firm and upright as always, but his muscles strain per each turn of the paddle.

He’s wearing the same black military shirt, long-sleeved, thin, cut apart in strange places. The hem of it is jutted out from his trousers – a rare sight, for the man’s always looked so composed. The long rips along his chest bring out certain rogue. His form, hardened and muscular, is displayed for Noah to see.

It is then that Noah catches the scars that are littered on his toned body. Pale diagonal lines that run in haphazard directions, some redder than others but all in varying sizes. The deep scarring is years old and likely to remain permanent.

A particular one is still raw and bleeding – a recent cut. It’s no wonder the air smells subtly copper. Noah softly traces his fingers on the colonel’s left pec, smearing an ounce of light crimson. If it hurts, Yang Rong doesn’t say a word.

Noah whispers, “Your scent is really strong.”

“Noah, if you dare tell me I smell again, I’m going to flip you off board.” Yang Rong paddles the boat even quicker in agitation, wading through the waves in expert mode. It seems he only needed a bit of prompting before he goes into another long-winded spiel. “Do you think everyone smells like flowers? What environment did you grow up in to be so spoiled? Your Rong-ge battled through sea monsters and took a dive for you, only to be stabbed by your sharp tongue. It is normal to smell like this, okay?!”

The sound of his voice travels far even through the deluge. Yang Rong has a way to project his voice so it reverberates crystal clear into his ears. The man takes ahold of his hand, stopping him from roaming. “Goddamnit, Noah, your hands—fuck, can you not be like this? You’re especially hard to deal with when you get like this – do you take me for a portable heater or what? Are you just going to take advantage of me without—"

Noah closes his eyes again and smushes his cheek against the crook of the colonel’s neck, desperate for warmth. Yang Rong’s cologne is a caramel, woody note – or perhaps it’s his natural scent, Noah can’t tell now. It is, however, more comforting than he expects.

“Mn… I got it,” he murmurs. “I understand, so… shh…”

“…” After a moment of silence, Yang Rong lets out a delayed sigh. He wraps an arm around Noah’s waist and shifts their bodies closer. When the colonel speaks again, his voice is lowered to a more soothing timbre, gentle to his ears. “How is it possible that you’re getting colder? Could it be that you can’t retain heat?”

Noah doesn’t respond.

“So fickle,” Yang Rong murmurs, nudging him lightly for attention. “Weren’t you running away from me before? Hm?”

He still doesn’t respond. Noah merely shakes his head softly – an unspoken request for him to drop the topic – and Yang Rong does appease. Noah is too conked out to indulge in such topics. He’s uncharacteristically soft, leaning and dozing off on the man’s shoulder. He’s also calm despite the raging tides, roaring thunders. The silver locks of his hair are glistened by moonlight.

In the haze of fever, Noah finds himself clinging on and not letting go.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Stay… like this.”

His breaths even out shortly after, the vertigo inducing him into deep sleep. There’s a distinctive vanilla fragrance that comes from his wounds, the small cuts on his hands, the spot on the nape of his neck. Minty and diluted with the smell of alcohol. Something else bitter. Yang Rong brushes a finger on his cheek – no response, but Noah’s lashes tremble slightly.

Eyebrows scrunched in sleep. Little wrinkles by his browbone that don’t match the delicate features of his face. A small droplet of rain that catches on the rim of his eyelid, rolling down like tears.

“Noah…” Yang Rong rolls the name off his tongue quietly. “Noah, what has happened to you?”