surrender ; minsung

breathe

Jisung opens his eyes and the room swims, candlelight like fireflies in the dark.

He's in Minho's chamber. How did he get here?

The curtain has been drawn over the skylight. He's covered in layers of blankets, a hot water bottle balanced on his forehead. When he tries to move, his whole body is stiff and sore. He tries anyway. He's needed somewhere. He must be. Something isn't right.

"Try not to move, Jisung."

Minho is climbing the steps to the bedroom loft. He has a mug of something steaming in his hands.

Jisung tries to speak. His words are slow and slurred. He feels like he has something stuffed in his mouth. "What am I... doing here?"

Minho sits on the edge of the bed and offers Jisung the mug. Jisung reaches out woodenly. He doesn't realize he's freezing cold till the hot tea touches his lips.

"You're recovering," says Minho.

"From...?"

"Hypothermia and a mild concussion."

Jisung... can't... process. He closes his eyes, dizzy.

"Your lieutenant told me you hit your head when you crashed," Minho says. "Had to stitch you up. Thirty minutes on an arctic planet... it's insane you survived."

"We crashed?"

"You don't remember?"

Jisung remembers the feeling. The falling. The running. Distantly. Like it's a dream, fading fast. The last thing he can call back...

He flinches, clutching at his chest. "Wh-where—"

"It's all right, they're here." Minho pulls the pouch of gemstones out of his pocket, passes it to Jisung. He holds it tight in his hands, relief washing over him. "So... you like them?"

Jisung keeps his eyes shut, nodding. "Yeah. I do."

Minho is quiet for a moment, shifting on the edge of the bed. Then he says, "Your crew are recovering as well. Some had to be resuscitated, some had to have their blood warmed. Now yours and mine are doubled up, playing doctor and patient. It's sort of touching actually."

"How long since...?"

"A day or so now. We've been orbiting, waiting for — well, for you to wake up."

"What?"

"The Stingray band has no ship. You figure out your game plan, then the Ender will drop you off wherever you want, at the commander's kindliness."

"Oh. Right. Can I... have some time? To think? I feel a little... off." He sniffs his tea. "What is this?"

"Medicinal brew from my planet. Arnica and aconite for your body, THC for pain, honey-lemon for taste. Do you like it?"

Jisung realizes he's smiling. "Like. Yeah, do."

Minho laughs. "Good. Do you need anything? More blankets? Is the bottle still warm?"

"Bottle?"

He touches the rubber bag on Jisung's head. How long had that been there? "Feels warm enough. Are you hungry?"

"Hungry? I dunno. Can you hold me?"

"You mean... hold you? Now?"

"Yeah. Please."

He seems taken aback. Reluctant. Jisung knows why but it all feels a galaxy away. He sinks into Minho's arms, both of them underneath the wool blankets. Have they done this before? Has he wanted to? (No. Yes. In that order.) Minho's breath sounds like the tide. Soft, rhythmic.

"Warmer?" he asks.

"I'm not cold."

There's a smile in his voice. "You're so stoned."

"Am not."

"You are."

"I'm injured."

"You poor thing."

Jisung mumbles something even he can't understand. Minho is drawing gentle circles against his back. He gets sleepy and lost in the feeling.

When Minho speaks again, his voice has gone tense.

"Jisung, before you crashed, you were going to say something."

"What?"

"On-com. You got cut off. 'The gentle parts of you, those were the parts that...'?"

"The parts that... what?"

"That's what I'm asking you."

"Asking me what?"

"Never mind, forget it. Just relax. You need sleep."

Jisung refuses to sleep. He doesn't want to miss this. He hasn't felt so light and calm since — he doesn't know when. Maybe it's the tea. Maybe it's Minho, holding him so close, the sound of home just a breath away. Jisung can't miss this. He can't lose this.

He's out within seconds.

—

When Jisung wakes up, the tea has worn off. And Minho is gone.

He finds a note on the bedside table. Off to sack my lieutenant. Jisung falls back in bed, head in his hands. His brain feels like a dying star. So much to do. A band to run. No ship to run it on. He has to control the fallout. He has to... rebuild.

He cries for a while, curled up where Minho lay beside him.

He doesn't want to rebuild.

He's sick of this game. The stealing and violence. The spiteful, money-consumed people. The loneliness and guilt and desolate, never-ending space. It pours and wells and drowns him. He wants out.

He's known for a long time now, his own life is out of his hands. Every time he's considered abnegation, he's reminded of the power and responsibility he holds. He employs 50 people, outcasts and undesirables like him — they depend on his ability to provide. If he let them go, they'd have no choice but to apply for a position in a smaller band, a smaller wage.

And him — what prospects does he have? His family disowned him as soon as he broke the atmosphere, left them on a dying planet with only the promise of dirty money. He has no skills beyond interstellar crime. Where would he go? So many earths have placed restrictions on merchants, even inactive ones, denying them jobs and housing if not citizenship outright.

And so long as he endures, he gets to stay in Minho's orbit.

These reasons — they're tangible, they've kept him bound, sinking, gasping for breath.

But somehow, he's alive. Somehow, he survived. And he would rather die than drown.

The organza bag sits on the bedside next to him. He pulls the string and holds out an earring, watches the light bounce off its slate surface. Minho has been kind to him, whether he knows it or not, he's been a raft in the void. A place where Jisung could voice the thoughts that scared him most. Safe in Minho's bed. Safe with Minho.

He would give Minho his life, if he could.

He pushes himself out of bed, wobbly on his feet, and climbs the steps to the lavatory, a small room with a toilet and sink and mirror. He looks himself in the eyes. He's exhausted, drawn from injury, flushed from crying. But there's a light, a hope as well.

He draws a breath, and lets it out.