#itpfl

[wordstro]

[3] sector one: post-apocalypse au + mingi + "you're safe in sector one."

a/n: 3.4k words, gender neutral reader, mingi x y/n, post apocalypse/dystopia typical violence, baker!yn

part 2 | series masterlist | part 4

-

you'd gotten up extra early the next morning, the morning chill creeping under your skin as you wrapped your arms around you. You walk through dewy grass, arriving upon the main building. sector one was built by hand and you could tell. the wooden structures were put together rather shoddily, but they held up and joy had a team constantly repairing and working on the buildings, making them stronger. the sleeping quarters were built in the back of sector one's walls, right next to the commune's meeting rooms. one of the meeting rooms is used as a daycare-slash-school-room of sorts, where the children too young to contribute elsewhere would spend their days. it was filled with old toys and books and colorful chairs. the normalcy of that room alone often made you want to bury your face in your hands and sob. you avoided that room often. it felt unsafe, for a child to grow up in a world like this, or even worse, be born into it.

the other room was curtained off and used as the medical bay. joy showed it to you briefly, and it seemed well-stocked, but incredibly understaffed. sometimes, there was a line of people waiting to see a medic, and the line would go out the door.

joy's quarters sat separately down a side hallway, away from the noisy children and the people lingering in the medical bay hallway. it reminded you of the little managerial offices your bosses would clack away on a computer at during your restaurant jobs back Before. she had an open door policy and everyone called her little sitting room the counsel room.

as you step into the side hallway, you can see that joy's door is cracked open. so you knock once before slowly letting yourself in. joy is leaning over her wooden desk, pouring over a map laid out across the huge table. you recognize it immediately as a map of South Korea, but you don't understand the dozens of red X’s scattered across the map means. joy rounds the table, stepping into your view, and her soft voice echoes throughout the counsel room, "what's wrong, y/n?"

"sorry for interrupting," you say, though you're not sorry, "i'm just...i want to know why you didn’t let me know where we got those chocolate chips from."

joy frowns, "what do you mean?"

"they're from one of the newbies. you should have told me."

you'd spent all of yesterday ruminating over what wooyoung said. sure, he'd was an asshole for his actions, but when it came to precious resources like chocolate chips, it was always finders keepers. it was an unspoken rule, you thought.

"why?" joy continues frowning, her airy voice quiet.

you say, "i wouldn't have used it for everyone then. that's not fair."

joy shakes her head, and her expression grows extremely gentle. kind, even. for some reason, it angers you. she looks at you like you're one of the little children tucked away in the school room, throwing a tantrum because you don't understand something.

"sector one is a commune, y/n," joy says. "everything we bring into these walls is to be shared with everyone."

"i don't think that's fair." you say, flat out ignoring her kind, frankly condescending tone.

joy shrugs, "it's every person for themselves beyond this wall, but if we want to build a healthy community then we need to share our resources. we can't be so individualistic. we must survive for the future of humanity."

she's not wrong, annoyingly enough, but the way joy's eyes soften with her words makes you frown still. you sigh. she won't budge in this, and you still don't want to cause any waves - not with joy. you concede, "i'd appreciate if you tell me where you got it from next time at least."

so you don't get blindsided by another angry newbie next time.

"sure," joy says, and her tone grows an edge to it that is unexpected. almost as if she's holding back an eye roll. you'd done that often with annoying customers back before to catch it in her voice. joy says, "did you want to know where every single bag of flour comes from, too? a map of every neighborhood and every house each team has raided just to find a single can of condensed milk? do you want a debrief of what we found in each of those houses along the way? maybe you want pictures of the families that lived there back Before?"

you blink at her tone, bristling. you did not imagine the contempt, clearly. you should not match her tone or her energy. you've always told yourself to remain calm, to maintain a demeanor that kept you out of trouble, but perhaps staying here has softened your rules for the worst. you bite out in the same politely cutting tone, "if you think it's necessary, then why not?"

joy meets your steady gaze from across the room, and there's a tick in her jaw that you would have missed if you were not looking. she lets out a long drawn out sigh, and says, "it's early, y/n. we'll talk later. and," joy smiles and her gentleness, softness, returns, "i'll consider your request, alright?"

you know what a dismissal sounds like, so you nod and say, "thanks."

~.~.~.~.~

your annoyance grows as you head to the kitchens. you walk past the training grounds - it’s closed off to the rest of the commune by wooden fences that are chest height. the showers are accessible from the training grounds and from the rest of the communes, though you doubt one could call them showers really, since it was just a giant room with a dozen shower heads installed all across one wall and bathroom stalls on the other side. there were allotted times for certain genders and age groups to shower and it was heavily enforced by both joy and the people themselves. it still lacked privacy, nothing but a measly hooks separating each shower head that was meant for you to hang up your own towel for privacy, but it was better than nothing. you'd gone months without a proper shower before sector one so you really could not complain about these, especially because sector one somehow had hot water.

you sigh as you head past the courtyard that held all the dining tables - benches lined up side by side like a picnic camp ground - and through the bustling kitchen. joy was never quite so abrasive with anyone, and you wondered if she'd bristled at your request, or because of something else entirely.

the kitchen is hard at work on breakfast already, the head chef - kyungsoo - shouting instructions over to his bustling aids. the main kitchen is huge, with scratched up industrial steel tables, an oven, and a gas stove with blackened coils. everything is mismatched and broken in some way, but it's all the scavenging crews could find. tiny potatoes are piled in boxes in the far corner. an aid calls, behind you! and you step out of the way as they stumbled past with an armful of canned vegetables. another one follows with a couple large knives. you’d worked with kyungsoo during your first week in sector one, and you did not enjoy it. he was particular about everything, and ran the kitchen like the military. being late was not tolerated, and messiness resulted in punishment - usually hand washing the dozens upon dozens of dishes after meals, and getting more water from the wells. he'd despise the way you ran the baking kitchen, and you knew that was why he never crossed the line to your kitchen unless absolutely necessary. kyungsoo was also awful at baking, apparently.

kyungsoo tips his chin in your direction and you wave back before you slip into the back hallway, kyungsoo's shouts and the banging of pots and pans echoes behind you. the dark hallway is used as storage for both your kitchens, and serves as a small pathway leading to your bakery. there are a decent amount of flour bags lined up along one wall, and some small containers of cooking oil on the other. cooking oil is a precious resource these days and the main kitchen had priority over yours when any food hauls came in, so you often had to improvise with your recipes to substitute oil. sugar, though, was the hardest to replace, and often you had to look for natural sugar alternatives, or worse, go sugar free until the next food haul.

the lights to the bakery are on. you wonder if yeri arrived early to prepare all the dough left to rise overnight. unlike kyungsoo's kitchen, you did not get very many assistants assigned to your kitchen. it was a small space, and bread was really deemed the most necessary of baked goods that came out of your kitchen. everything else is a luxury. a treat.

you are startled when you step into the kitchen, and you're greeted by a deep grunt in response. that is certainly not yeri.

you pull your knife that you keep hidden at your hip - you cannot help it - spinning in the direction of the grunt.

you blink.

mingi has both arms up in the air in a placating manner, his eyes wide. he tries to make himself look less threatening but his height does not help.

"shit, sorry," you say, dropping your arm to your side, sheathing the knife quickly.

mingi shakes his head as he slowly lowers his arms. he says, "you're better with a knife than fists."

you frown at him. he cracks a small smile. it lights up his face, though you notice his smile does not reach his eyes. you've seen it quite a bit in everyone's faces, the dim look in their eyes, but his eyes are something else. something sallow. broken, maybe, like cracked bread or all those crushed picture frames you'd seen since the world went to shit or the way your heart shattered when you left your parent's house for the last time.

mingi peers around the kitchen, and you break the silence first, shaking yourself from your thoughts, "why are you here?"

he says, "i've been assigned to help here."

his deep voice helps expel your spiraling thoughts. broken eyes are common these days. nothing was worth fixing unless it helped you survive, especially people.

"really?" you ask, surprised. kyungsoo hinted a while back (with infuriatingly gleeful audacity) that your kitchen would only get one kitchen aide, and you and yeri had grown resigned to the fact.

"i used to work at a bakery back..." mingi trails off, shrugging, "i guess someone told joy."

the way his voice curls around someone makes you think mingi knows exactly who told joy. he's nonchalant still, unbothered in a way that makes you wary. where yeosang is guarded and, frankly, angry, mingi is calm and unbothered. you don't know which is worse. one put his cards out on the table right away, and the other felt like a mysterious ticking bomb.

"you have more experience than me, then," you say, laughing a little as you grab two aprons from the hook beside the counter. you toss him one, and he catches it easily.

mingi shakes his head, "i was just a cashier."

"even better," you say, tying off your apron, "my head baker position is secure."

a beat of silence passes between you both as you pull out dough left to cool in the fridge overnight by yeri during your day off.

then, mingi says, voice soft, "for now."

you look up at him. mingi grins once more, and his face is softer, his shoulders less stiff. you can't help but laugh. his grin grows a little wider.

you think mingi is easy to like. that makes you a bit wary.

~.~.~.~.~

you can't sleep. it's difficult to ignore what night brings, even if you are supposed to be safe in sector one.

nights are always quiet in sector one. days are often filled with chores, and the hustle and bustle of getting things done. the older compound members would sit under one of the three shade structures built along the three walls of sector one that did not hold the training, dining, and kitchen facilities, the canopies made of mismatched wood and plastic, sandbags holding the posts down, and they would weave baskets, sandals, plates, and other necessities, or scrub laundry. your first few months, you found the way they hollered at each other or howled in laughter jarring. but now, it was comforting. stronger able-bodied folks would carry pails of water in from the wells, or spend time in the greenhouses and gardens. the scavenger teams and patrol parties would walk with purpose, busy whispering to each other of their plans. an occasional child would run about, weaving through groups of people and kicking up dirt and grass. it was overwhelming when you'd first arrived. especially with how quickly the atmosphere changed as night approached.

once the sun set, everyone retreated back to their quarters. there was a large common room, with couches and ratty cushions and board games missing half their pieces and unfinished puzzles on the floor, and the hallways to the individual bedrooms and family rooms were lit up with dim torch lights, but conversations remained hushed, and no one dared to step outside. despite joy's promises, despite the fact that sector one truly did seem safe from the black fog and whatever lurked outside at night, everyone remained cautious, quiet.

perhaps, it was indication enough that the survival instincts from beyond the wall still lived on in these people. it made you feel less strange for still being wary. but the switch from lively to dead silence made it difficult to sleep.

this particular night, you wander outside the common room. oftentimes, you would not be the only one sitting quietly in the common room. a pretty boy with dark freckles and kind eyes always sits in the corner and reads under dim candlelight. he never says anything to you, and you to him, but you find his presence reassuring.

tonight, however, you step outside. the boy looks up from his book as moonlight douses him. he frowns, opens his mouth, but does not say anything. you shut the door quietly behind you, the wooden door clicking shut softly.

it's cold outside, and the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. it feels as if there are eyes on you - there very well might be. whatever attacked humanity, whatever hung between the moon and stars and caused the black fog and horrible screams at night, is probably watching you walk around like a goddamned idiot.

you clutch your sweater closer as you pass by the training fences.

the grass slopes off into a short hill, that leads down to the courtyards and the kitchens. at the top of the small hill sits a familiar figure. he is awash in moonlight, and his pretty features are almost ethereal like this. he's staring up, presumably at the moon.

you still don't have the guts to follow his gaze. he's brave. you've looked up at it once, just briefly, and you still remember the tiny reflective silver objects flitting in and out between the clouds, darkening the whites of the moon. you still remember the way your stomach sank at the sight, as if your instincts knew there was something very, very wrong. it was a deep-rooted, evolutionary fear that curled under your bones and never really left you.

a burning ember sets yeosang's face ablaze, orange mixing with white moonlight. the smell of cigarette smoke is strong. you didn't know those still existed.

he looks back at you over his shoulder, his dark eyes widening slightly at the sight of you before he looks away as if he is disappointed.

you step closer, plopping down uninvited next to him in the grass.

yeosang rests his hands on his folded knees, the cigarette burning out between you both. one of his knees are shaking.

after a moment of silence, yeosang speaks.

"sorry for being a dick earlier," yeosang mumbles, "and for disappearing."

"thanks," you say, fixing your gaze on the gates straight ahead. "appreciate the apology. appreciated the silence a bit more though."

yeosang snorts as he sticks the burning cigarette in a patch of dirt, grinding the end until the orange ember sputters out.

you look at him. yeosang looks tired. you say, "can you tell your friend wooyoung to apologize though? he beat me up because of you and a bag of chocolate chips."

yeosang laughs then, and the sound is unexpected. it's pretty. softer than his walls. "wooyoung is an idiot."

"that doesn't excuse him trying to dislocate my arm."

"yeah," yeosang mutters, frowning suddenly, "it doesn't. i'll tell him."

the silence afterwards is tense. you have no idea why. you want to ask, but you also don't care to know.

suddenly, yeosang says, "i heard mingi is helping you now."

"yeah," you say, "he said he used to work at a bakery."

"i met him there."

you raise a brow, "oh, back Before?"

"no, during the Invasion," yeosang cranes his neck as he peers up at the moon. you don't dare to follow his gaze. he says, "mingi killed someone who tried to kill me. was still wearing his apron and everything."

he speaks so casually, as if that day is not still a sore spot for nearly everyone you've ever met.

"you've been together ever since?"

yeosang nods.

you can't help it when you ask, "how?"

yeosang frowns at you, "what do you mean?"

how were you meant to explain that with longevity comes attachment? that survival in this world meant to remain detached, and therefore protected? that you thought him ridiculous for judging the way these people coped when he clung to mingi for so long you were sure he'd lose his mind if something ever happened to the other man? that level of commitment was insane to you. maybe yeosang was not brave, but rather insane, and that was why he could so easily look at the moon.

yeosang's eyes flickers between yours, waiting for a response. you shrug, "i don't know. i've just never stuck around with the same people for -"

a loud screech cuts you off. it's clearly from beyond the walls, triggering a chorus of shrill bird caws and the rustling of leaves. the keening sound is piercing, and you wince. you've heard that sound often when you were beyond the walls, when you were holed up in a stranger's home or some abandoned shed.

yeosang jumps to his feet, bristling like a startled cat, his gaze fixed in that direction beyond the walls.

then the keening abruptly stops, the same way symphonies stop with a conductor. the same way screams stop when someone puts a hand over the person's mouth. you'd seen that once, with one of the groups you'd left after just a few hours.

the silence afterwards is utterly engulfing. the crickets do not chirp. the breeze does not blow. it is as if the world has stilled, and even a single breath or a single twitch of your fingers will bring whatever was beyond the walls back.

you open your mouth. you want to say something, but you are struck once more by that primal fear, the kind that has every cell in your body begging for you to run.

grass crunches behind you, the softest sound turned into a blaring horn in the silence.

you spin, knife in hand. yeosang's head snaps over his shoulder.

joy stands illuminated by torchlight, soft yellow-orange lighting up her rounded features.

she's staring at both of you, eyes flickering back and forth, back and forth.

you say, "did you hear that?"

joy holds the torch higher, and she says, "it's nothing to worry about."

you glance over at yeosang, and he frowns, but he doesn't say anything. your heart slams against your ribs, still injected with fear.

"we're safe in sector one," joy says gently. "there's nothing to worry about. just breathe, y/n."

her voice is soothing enough. you let yourself breathe.

joy gestures back to the sleeping quarters, "you both should go inside."

"okay," yeosang says after a beat of silence. "fine."

joy's smile is reassuring, but her eyes are fixed above your head. behind you.

"everything is fine," joy says, once more. "you're safe in sector one."

[wordstro]

[2] sector one: post-apocalypse au + mingi + "it's for my friend."

a/n: 3.2k words, gender neutral reader, mingi x y/n, post apocalypse/dystopia typical violence, baker!yn

part 1 | series masterlist | part 3

-

you liked baking focaccia. dimpling the bread calmed you.

you also liked learning combat. just in case you needed to run. just in case. combat was not as calming as the hours you spent baking, but it was important. complacency would be dangerous, and that thought remained a nagging voice at the back of your head.

for weeks now you attended ms. hyori's combat training sessions on your days off from the bakery, but ms. hyori had an accident where she'd slipped from one of the watchtower ladders and broke her ankle so she's been stuck on sewing duty - she hated it, if her constant, very loud groaning that could be heard throughout the compound was anything to go by.

unfortunately for sector one, the medic was a temporary replacement after the previous one had died on a medical supply run, and sector one still had not found a medic with actual working medical knowledge. this had been a problem since before you'd even entered sector one. unfortunately, training people who spent years spent within the walls of sector one with a measly tattered medical textbook only created a group of medics that could treat nothing worse than cuts, scrapes, and sprains.

injuries such as hyori's were treated mostly with bandages and strict rest orders to ensure that they healed properly; at least this was what yeri had told you the other day as you both worked on a round of focaccia bread from possibly expired yeast scavenger crew three found near a rundown gas station. broken bones often did not heal right before the Invasion; you could not imagine dealing with one now.

when you arrive at the training grounds, everyone else is already discussing who would replace ms. hyori, their hushed voices mixing with the early morning chirping from the birds. despite everything, nature kept on, and you always figured that was how the end of the world would go. hearing it and seeing it firsthand, though, was still jarring.

"morning, everyone," joy's soft, airy voice fills the training grounds. though she isn't loud, her voice echoes, and it seems to capture the attention of everyone instantly. even the early morning birds get quieter. joy strides to the front, people stepping aside to make room for her. there were two people trailing behind her.

joy has a bright smile on her face, her eyes sparkling, as she turns to face the group. the two unfamiliar people at her shoulders - one tall and the other shorter, but both angular, made rugged by their days beyond the wall, no doubt, with matching knitted brows, watchful eyes, and an air to them that you knew meant they were New - merely loomed behind her, like a brewing storm.

joy gestures to the two men beside her. the tall one towers over her, a looming figure with a quiet, intense aura. somehow the shorter one is scarier, his features sharp. he looks like the type of man that would have been casted in a television show about gangs.

the tall one, though terrifying in his height and stoic demeanor, appears almost docile in nature, gentler, in comparison. he keeps his distance from joy, you notice, but his eyes flit over the class attendees, lingering on each of you as if he is making mental notes in his head. he is rightfully wary, but he did not seem explosive or impulsive, which was hard to come by in this new world where many attacked first and asked questions last.

"as you may have already heard, hyori is out indefinitely until she's fully recovered. luckily for us, a couple newcomers have enthusiastically agreed to help with combat training during this time slot."

joy waves at the two men. neither of them look remotely enthusiastic.

"hyori has given them her approval, so i'm sure they'll do great. everyone, meet san," joy gestures to the shorter, sharp-featured man. his name suited him, his demeanor jagged like a mountain. joy turns, craning her neck to look up at the tall man, smiling brightly as she points at him, "and mingi. i know you all have things to do, so i won't keep you any longer. i hope you all treat each other kindly. san, mingi, if you need anything you know where to find me."

joy waves as she leaves, her personal guard following behind her. you stare at the two men.

mingi. back Before you would have thought this was merely a coincidence, but the world was truly small nowadays so coincidences no longer existed, at least not with names. this had to be that mingi. chocolate chip mingi. yeosang's friend.

yeosang comes by at least three times a week to request pastries. it was not the norm, really, and the kitchen head often looked down upon such a thing, but you allowed it. you liked the company, and he seemed more relaxed with each visit. it fascinated you, watching him open up to you so slowly. unfortunately, you didn't have chocolate chip cookies, as that last bit of chocolate chips was devoured quite quickly by dinner time the very same day you met yeosang, but you you still referred to yeosang's friend as the chocolate chip man. yeosang's friend who was named mingi. who is here in front of you. you you could finally put a face to.

yeosang never really bothered to bring mingi around.

"i swear you only come around here so you can get first dibs on any fresh batches," you muttered after you swatted yeosang's hand away when he tried to pick at a scone you'd just pulled from the oven.

"it's for my friend," yeosang said, "he's sad."

"yeah, yeah, yeah," you'd rolled your eyes, "i'm starting to think this sad chocolate chip man isn't real."

yeosang had laughed, but he did not say anything to refute your half-assed joke. you still gave him an extra scone before shooing him away from your kitchen.

you'd started to think you might have liked yeosang's company.

most importantly, you started to think his friend did not exist. perhaps yeosang needed company himself, and had no idea how to ask for it. you understood that need; you've had plenty of newcomers linger in your kitchen in search of someone to listen as they rambled on and on. yeosang mostly lurked in your kitchen in silence though. so clearly, this mingi was not real.

except now you know he is very much real.

mingi's eyes meets yours over a few heads, and you find yourself quickly looking away first, shuffling from foot to foot as you focus your attention on san. you feel as if you know him, when he likely has no idea who you are.

"...start with a few simple stretches and then i want you to show me your defensive st..." san's voice drones.

~.~.~.~.~

the rest of the session is quick, and on par with hyori's level of skill, though san and mingi clearly lack her positivity. san does not smile once, and mingi did not speak. somehow, san's intimidating, piercing stares and one-worded corrections as he walked around the training field is motivating though, because the class seemed much more serious this morning than you've ever thought it'd be.

when you first arrived at sector one, the disregard in everyone's demeanor had put you off. it was disconcerting, to think that you'd spent so long living in constant vigilance, while everyone here treated important things such as combat training like it was a boxing class at a local gym.

even after so much time in sector one, the nonchalance still bothered you. you could not shake the fear and anxiety, despite everything. san's stoic demeanor brings with it a sense of urgency in the other members of sector one that you often did not see. perhaps it was more present in those who did supply runs or worked outside the wall, but not in classes like this. it's as if his wariness is contagious.

where san is stoic, his directions short and his patience shorter, mingi does not say a word. he merely taps on shoulders, taps at incorrect points in someone's form, and demonstrates the correct form over and over until the person understands. he certainly has patience, and his presence draws command, despite his inability to speak. you find your eyes drifting to him, even as you try to keep your focus on san.

after class, you sit sprawled in the grass, fanning yourself. the sun has gotten hotter over the last few days, and sweat drips down your back at the simplest of tasks.

san and mingi are talking quietly as the other sector one training session attendees disperse. you didn't think mingi could speak, but it seemed he could, but he chose not to.

"hey, mingi, san!" a familiar voice calls. yeosang appears, waving at mingi and san. so, this is chocolate chip mingi. "do either of you want to -"

yeosang cuts himself off when san walks away mid-sentence, disappearing into the shower rooms at the edge of the training field. he did not look back or acknowledge yeosang. yeosang stares after him, a long look that has you scrambling to your feet, suddenly feeling as if you are intruding on something that was none of your business.

being nosy, though tempting, only spelled trouble, Before and After. besides, the secondhand embarrassment curling at the pit of your stomach as you watched yeosang's shoulders droop and his smile slip from his face was enough to have you scurry to the showers as quickly as you could.

~.~.~.~.~

"it seems this mingi character is in fact very real," you say to yeosang moments after he appears like clockwork at the door of your kitchen the next day.

"what?"

"so it turned out my new combat instructor's name is mingi."

"oh," yeosang nods. "yeah, joy's forced us all to take up hobbies."

there's scorn in his tone as he spits out the last word. you laugh and he scowls at you as you say, "so what does she have you doing?"

"take care of the livestock," yeosang mutters.

"that sounds nice." it did. sector one only had a handful of cattle and chicken, but they were sweet. joy mentioned during your tour that the cattle would not be used for meat unless absolutely necessary, as their manure and milk were more beneficial to the compound. the chicken were used solely for their eggs. it was as if joy was giving you reassurance, as if you were allowed to get attached to these animals if you wanted to, because they would remain. she listed it off as if she'd repeated the same sentiment time and time again.

"well, it's not nice." yeosang rolls his eyes, "it smells like shit."

"sounds like cuddling a cow or two would do you some good, yeosang."

yeosang glares at you, "that is exactly what joy said."

"and now you have a second opinion."

yeosang's glare deepens, but he keeps his mouth shut.

you cut the sourdough loaf in front of you into thin slices. the crunch as you slice into the bread with your dull knife fills the room for a long moment.

"it's so fucking stupid."

you look up at yeosang, "what is?"

yeosang gestures around you both, "all of this. everything is so...nice, and it's fucking insane. how do any of you...why is everyone so..."

yeosang's frown only deepens as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"normal?" you finish for him.

he nods, "it's fucking insane."

you'd thought the same thing, when you were alone in your little cot in your tiny room - it was a little brick room that fit a small cot, a tiny rickety chair, and a scratched up table that you were sure they'd swiped from a school. your clothes were stacked neatly in a woven basket you'd made yourself the first few weeks after you'd arrived. it wasn't much, and you figured the single rooms were so tiny so no one would spend all their time in their rooms - you spent countless nights staring up at the stone ceilings, counting scratches on the brick or missing pieces in the grout, and wondered the same thing. how was this sane? what if the compound was attacked? would anyone be prepared? what if none of this was real, and you'd succumbed to some kind of madness? how was everyone okay with pretending things were normal?

you still wonder the same thing. but the thing is, more often than not you find yourself looking forward to your shifts in the bakery. you watch exhausted smiles stretch across the faces of people - fellow survivors - as they bite into fresh bread or a sweet treat you'd made, and you understand it. it feels like living again. you hadn't had the chance before the invasion, really. everyday, rumors spread of new couples dating. two pregnancies were announced during your time here. it's insane, and you think everyone around you knew it as well. yet you congratulated them anyway. you kept an escape bag under your bed just in case. yet you returned to your kitchen shift like clockwork. you understood it so well. was that naive of you? of all of you?

you wipe your hands on your apron and you say, "why do you come here everyday asking for sweets for mingi?"

yeosang frowns, tone harsh, "why the fuck does that matter?"

you glare at him, matching his harsh tone, "do you think you're the only person in this entire compound that comes here asking for fresh bread or something sweet for a friend? everybody is just trying to cope. is it a little insane? probably, but who the hell are you to judge when you're the same?"

yeosang maintains his scowl, his lips pressed into a thin line. he says, "i don't trust places like this. you're an idiot if you do."

"do you think i do?" you snap back.

yeosang scoffs, "whatever."

you watch as he rolls his eyes, turns on his heels and storms off, a whirlwind of anger, and you wonder if yeosang had a bad experience with settlements like this before. you'd ran from a previous group when they started plans to settle. yeosang did not seem like the type to run from things before they got difficult, at least not the way you did.

~.~.~.~.~

"partner up!" san calls out, clapping his hands as he looks around expectantly. "we're going to practice one-on-one now."

there's been an influx of participants in this particular class ever since last week - likely due to whispers of the new instructors. yeri had mentioned to you how dreamy the newbies were, especially the tall kind medic who she assisted the other day. you did not blame them, really. san is handsome, in an angst-ridden sort of way - a rugged mysterious man whose serious demeanor leaves everyone wanting to know more. mingi was a chiseled handsome, more sad than anything else to you, and, frankly, you found it fascinating how quiet he was. but most of all, you liked that he seemed gentle, like he would not even hurt a fly. his presence made you more comfortable than san's for that reason.

"you're the baker right?" you turn at the voice.

a man with longer black hair, tanned skin, a stocky build, and twinkling eyes crosses his arms over his chest as he peers at you.

you frown, "yeah, i am. why are you asking?"

"let's partner up," he says, ignoring your question. he does not smile as he holds a hand out, though he does keep talking, "i'm wooyoung. i'm new."

you introduce yourself, and his expression twitches. you watch as he settles into a fighting stance, fists in front of his face, legs solid and wide. you settle into your own fighting stance.

san calls for you all to start, his voice ringing through the training fields.

wooyoung says, "so you're the one who's upset yeosang."

he says it more as a statement rather than a question. you blink in surprise. you hadn't seen yeosang since he walked out. you wondered where he was - maybe you even worried a bit - but at the end of the day you and yeosang were not friends, so did it really matter if you checked on him or asked around about him?

"i..." you frown at wooyoung, "he upset himself."

wooyoung's eyes narrow. suddenly he lunges at you. you're unprepared for when he easily side swipes your limp hands and pulls your hands back, shoving you into the ground. you certainly eat dirt. wooyoung lets go of you pretty quickly. you glare at him, "what the fuck was that for?"

wooyoung shrugs, says, "you should have been ready."

you get to your feet, swinging at him as soon as you do, but wooyoung is ready. he's too good at hand-to-hand combat. it pisses you off. he grabs your wrist and twists it until you're turned with your back to him. then he jabs you in the knees and you collapse. he lets go of you, stepping into your view.

you rub your twisted arm, bewildered, "are you serious? is this because yeosang is upset?"

wooyoung hums, "nah that last one was because you used up my entire chocolate chip stash."

before you can say anything, someone clears their throat behind you. wooyoung's flick up behind you and you turn from where you are still sitting on the floor clutching your arm.

mingi looms over you, nearly blocking out the sun. he is a shadowed outline, his chiseled features softened by the shadows he casts. his hands are stuffed into his pockets, and he does not say a word. he just holds out a hand towards you. you take his hand, and he easily hauls you up to your feet.

wooyoung rolls his eyes, "i'm just having a bit of fun."

"you're being mean." mingi says. you startle at his voice. it's a deep rumble, a little raspy. you look between mingi and wooyoung, as they both seem to have a conversation with only their eyes, leaving you to stand awkwardly in silence between them.

wooyoung throws his hands in the air, "whatever, i'll spar with san."

you watch wooyoung stalk away, and all you can think about is that those chocolate chips must have come from the newbies. from yeosang and his friends. why didn't joy tell you when she gave you the bag? all you can think about is wooyoung clearly being pissed at you because yeosang was upset. protectiveness like that was normal these days, though you found such codependency dangerous. you were with a group once who would kill people just for looking at them the wrong way. it was dangerous and strange, and you were never one for codependency, even back before the invasion.

"thanks for that," you say, after a beat of silence.

mingi just shrugs.

the silence lasts another moment before you add, "i'm y/n."

mingi smiles then, even as he says, "the baker."

you nod, unable to help your own smile. his smile is infectious, all gummy and sweet, adding an unexpected charm to his expression. you laugh a little as you say, "yeah, the baker."

[wordstro]

[1] sector one: post-apocalypse au + mingi + “welcome to sector one.”

a/n: 4k words, gender neutral reader as always, mingi x y/n, descriptions of death, technically a sequel so there will be references/easter eggs to what happened in the previous fic however this can be read as a standalone, su1cide mentions/descriptions of the aftermath of one, post-apocalypse/dystopia-typical violence, aliens, thriller/suspense genre, baker!yn

series masterlist | part 2

-

the end of the world wasn’t so bad.

not when you had nothing going for you back before the Invasion. you were up to your eyeballs in debt, never had a place to call home thanks to running from loan sharks and dealing with greedy landlords hiking up rent prices, and you’d barely had time to make friends let alone date anyone seriously.

the worst part, you knew, was that your parents were wonderful. you had no deadbeat father or mother. no terrible childhood. no issues. they supported you through your school as much as they could, and they sent you opportunities whenever they could. your father even learned how to use kakaotalk properly to keep in touch, sending you selfies and encouraging texts whenever he sensed you were struggling. they even offered to help you pay off your debt. you’d refused. they needed the money, too. you had a wonderful support system, yet you still struggled. whoever said money did not buy happiness clearly never lived paycheck to paycheck.

you loved your parents, and they were the only people you’ve ever truly loved. they were the only people you ever really knew.

but they did not live in the city, and when you’d escaped the city after the initial Invasion - it took you a week of sneaking and crawling through back alleys just to end up hot wiring an abandoned car at the outskirts of the city - you drove to your childhood home. you’d pulled into the dirt path leading up the the old lopsided house with a heaviness in your heart, wary of the eerie emptiness. during the day, your mother often left the windows open to air out the house. all the windows were shut right, curtains drawn. you’d unlocked the door and watched as the door swung open, knocking into the shoe rack with a dull thud in the tiny threshold up into the kitchen and living room. your mother was never the neatest, so the basket of laundry on the kitchen counter, folded perfectly, sent a chill down your spine. your father always locked the liquor cabinet, but the scratched wooden door swung open, creaking on its hinges. you'd brandished the crowbar you'd found in the trunk of the car you stole, your hands trembling, as you stepped into your house and searched the two small bedrooms down the hallway. the bedrolls were tucked into the corner, pillows laid neatly atop of them. your mother’s little table that usually spilled over with products was spotless. the kitchen was the cleanest you’d ever seen it. your room remained as you left it, childhood band posters and all. the only thing that was off were the two soju glasses and the two plates of food - half eaten and rotting, flies buzzing - on the table in the living room. four soju bottles sat lined up on the table. all empty. you'd gone out back, to the tiny workshop you'd saved up to buy your father a few years back.

the garage door would always be open, but this time the door was shut. there was the faint smell of gasoline in the air. you'd stepped closer, your heart beating heavily against your chest, and with closer inspection you found your father’s pickup truck parked neatly inside. he never parked it inside.

the garage door was not locked, and the sound of it groaning as you dragged it open echoed. it made the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. but the worst part, you thought, was the smell. it smelled like something had died, and your breath grew heavy in your chest at that thought as you choked on the lump in your throat, pressing your fingers to your mouth to suppress an involuntary sob. you did not have to look. deep down, you knew the outcome that awaited you at the other end of the garage. but you were always one to dig. to want to know everything, no matter how badly it'd hurt you.

that day, you found your parents dead in the front seat of their pickup truck, the windows cracked open slightly, the garage smelling heavily of exhaust smoke, gasoline, and death. the keys were still in the truck. they looked as if they could have been sleeping, heads resting on the other. you'd gagged still, and ran from the garage, heaving for air.

you'd found yourself in your childhood bedroom, back pressed to your closed door, surrounded by a room still stuck in the past, before all this, and you lamented the fact that even now, you could not cry. you’d been so focused on survival for so long, that you just did not know how to cry. all you could was lay on the floor of your childhood bedroom, stare at the ceiling, and wonder what you were supposed to do now. you'd never had so much time to just...sit.

still, despite the lack of tears, you allowed yourself the night to grieve. to feel sad, at least, only because you knew that was what you were supposed to do. then you'd raided your parent's pantry for anything edible and packed extra clothes, books, a couple tools, and a carefully folded photo of you and your parents. you threw it all in the backseat of your stolen car, taking one last look at your childhood home, before you drove. your vision blurred from lack of sleep, and your heart ached, and you did not know where you were going. you just knew you needed to put as much space between yourself and your parents as you could.

the weather was beautiful and the sky was blue, cloudless, and you hated that the breeze kissed your cheek so gently as you left. you wanted so badly to cry then. to sob. you would not learn to cry again u til much later, but this was perhaps a start. as you drove, you realized you had time to think. for the first time in your life, you had time to think and feel and wonder what to do. you had all the time in the world. the thought was more freeing than you wanted to admit, yet you did not feel entirely guilty for it.

after the Invasion, you decided to spend your time looking for food. you spent a lot of time thinking, and living, and learning about yourself and your wants and needs, and for the first time in years you felt as if you could just simply exist. for the first time in years, you sat down and cried. it was perhaps a month or two later, after you’d barricaded yourself in an empty apartment for the night and you happened upon a locked bedroom. you’d opened it with a hairpin, and immediately regretted it - it was merely an empty nursery, but there was a wall of family photos, and you found yourself examining each picture until your knees buckled beneath you and you cried for the first time in decades.

as you drove from ghost town to ghost town, and eventually walked because your car ran out of fuel, you found that the end of the world wasn’t so bad. sure, whatever was in the fog at night was terrifying, and the scratching and screaming and clicking noises at night made you skin crawl - it was a sound you heard everywhere the night of the Invasion, leading you to conclude that the only explanation had to be an Invasion. of what? you had no idea, and, frankly, you did not want to know. your curiosity certainly did not extend that far - not when the things hanging in the sky made the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end.

sure, some of the other survivors you met while you stocked up on food and weapons were, frankly, unsettling as fuck. but you were a quick learner and you knew to stay out of trouble - you always had since you were a kid - and, maybe, the end of the world and whatever Invaded the planet didn’t have to matter in the grand scheme of things.

maybe, you could ignore it.

all you had to do was survive.

for years, you befriended groups of other survivors and then fled when things started to get too intense. you stayed with one group until they started tracking other survivor groups down on purpose, and their intentions went from stealing things your group needed for survival to so much worse. the moment you caught a smug, almost-excited glint in one of the men's eyes as he told your group that a small group consisting of mostly women and children were camped out in the woods further north, you'd gathered your things and ran as far as you could.

another group wanted to create a safe haven for survivors and started talking about settling, hope marring their expressions. you’d fled in the middle of the night with just enough supplies to keep you afloat until you found some other place to squat in or some other group to gain temporary protection from until the cycle began again.

you kept yourself quiet and easy to digest, but not weak, never weak. you had to make yourself useful, of course, so the groups wouldn't feel like they were taking on a burden, and you did not want to be an easy target. however, when one group you met kept calling you pretty, when their eyes held a glint that sent shivers down your back, and their lingering touches made you want to gag, you’d ditched that group that very same hour, and you did not feel an inkling of guilt as you took their biggest weapon and the precious ramyun packs they’d found two towns over. you’d run far, far away from that group, in case they decided to come looking for you. after that encounter, you kept your head down and made it a point to leave a group at the first sign of trouble. you refused to get attached, or worse.

until you stumbled upon a place with a purple flag fluttering over a tower and sturdy walls and the sounds of people laughing drifting out from the walls and military trucks. something akin to hope fluttered at the pit of your stomach, a dangerous thing to feel, but inevitable as you stared down at the walls to a settlement that looked and sounded too good to be true. you wanted to turn away, but you were tired and you hadn’t found an inkling of food for nearly a week. so you stepped over the hill with your hands raised in surrender.

a beautiful woman with dark eyes, inky black hair, and an air of cheerful authority that entered the room long before she did, met you in the small room they'd isolated you in for. she introduced herself as joy - a fitting name really, especially when she smiled. her voice was gentle and soft, airy even. she was like a breath of fresh air. it left you wary, despite your exhaustion and hunger.

she stood between you and the door. she seemed to be waiting for you to speak. when you remained silent, she only smiled, "where are my manners? welcome to sector one. we've been attack-free for one hundred and ninety-two days."

you'd blinked at that admission.

"how?" you croaked, your throat dry.

she waved a hand, and the guard at the door brought a small mug of water to where you sat. you’d stared at it. she reached over and took a sip of it herself, before she handed it to you. it wasn’t drugged, at least, so you gulped it down.

her voice was so soft, kind, as she waited for you to put the mug down, "if you wish to stay, i'll tell you. otherwise, i only hope you enjoy your stay."

"i..." you'd blinked, "i can leave?"

she'd smiled, and although her smile was genuine and wide, contagious almost, it did not reach her eyes. despite the years of living in a post-invasion world, you knew a customer service smile when you saw one.

she said, "this isn't a prison. you may stay for as long as you'd like. as long as you help out and clean up after yourself, that is."

you were not sure if you believed her, but you did not question it. instead, you introduced yourself.

joy smiled.

~.~.~.~.~

you meant to only stay for a little while. you had half a mind to find the supply room, steal the best they had to offer, and sneak away in the middle of the night. this was only supposed to be a short term stay anyway.

but joy, with her sweet smile and piercing gaze, sat down beside you during dinner your second evening and asked, “what did you like to do before the aliens?”

“i don’t know,” you’d shrugged, “i didn’t have much time to figure out what i liked.”

she raised a brow, “why?”

“i worked a lot. needed the money.”

“understandable,” she laughed, but her smile grew sad, "you’ll have to earn your keep during your stay. i only wanted to place you somewhere you’d enjoy."

“that’s…” you frowned at her, “kind of you.”

“they don’t call me joy for nothing,” she said with another small smile. then she squeezed your shoulder and waved goodbye, moving onto another table.

you’d been assigned all over the compound after that.

laundry and weapons and scouting and teaching and cleaning and the kitchens. you found you liked baking. you were kneading dough, with flour all over your hands. you hadn’t noticed joy enter the room until she tapped lightly on the entrance to the kitchen. you looked up, and joy leaned against the door frame, grinning, a hint of excitement in her airy voice, “i think we finally found something you like.”

you blinked back tears at the kind smile. you were beginning to think you’d never know what you liked, that you were incapable of remembering something so menial. for once, you could relax.

joy only smiled, and turned on her heels, leaving you alone. after that encounter, however, you were assigned most of your shifts in the kitchen, and for once you enjoyed getting up to go to work.

you should have known you’d end up staying then. it was difficult to give up a place that seemed safe from the things in the fog and in the sky. that first night, after the sun set, you were on edge, worried you’d get devoured or torn apart by whatever lived in the thick fog that engulfed the world. instead, the compound was peaceful, quiet. distant clicks were just that: distant.

you wondered what kept the monsters away. perhaps it was military equipment - that would explain the military cars. perhaps it was something else. either way, you were safe here, and you knew you’d be an idiot to throw something as precious as safety away. you’d always remember sitting in your tiny apartment that first night, with the door barricaded and a symphony of screams echoing all around you. the horrors on the television, of the live news broadcast showing the news anchor at the scene, talking one second, before she looked up. the pure terror in her eyes as a sudden shadow loomed over her like a dark cloud, and her scream that followed after before the camera was knocked to the ground would remained etched in your memory. a loud keening echoed through your apartment before the television turned to static. you saw something on that television that night, but you did not know how to explain it. you couldn’t even truly comprehend it. it was black, and long, and it had your instincts screaming at you to get far, far away. yet, you had no idea what to call it. you didn’t have the time to figure that out either, compartmentalizing the memory as neatly as you could. you meant to deal with it later, but as many of the things in your life did, it fell to the wayside and you never got to unpacking it.

during those first days, you’d established two rules for yourself. one: no going out after sunset, and, two, no getting attached to anyone or anything.

easy rules, really.

but then you stood in front of joy, and you said, “i want to stay.”

~.~.~.~.~

a year later, and you are the head baker in the kitchens. most of the time, you figure out different bread recipes with what little ingredients you have available to you. sometimes, you get permission to make sweets - cream breads and cakes and mousses and cookies - and those are your favorite days.

to think the life you'd lived after you drove away from your family home was all you were going to have in this world. you truly believed that even then, despite the time to think and exist, you'd been living, when in fact you were only surviving. this past year was spent learning how to truly live.

despite a whole entire year, you still did not figure out much.

you like baking.

you do not know your favorite color.

maybe it’s green? or purple? pink? blue?

your sheets are a faded green. the shirt you gravitate towards is a deep blue. the only food coloring anyone's found on runs is pink, so your icing and decorations are always pink. you don't know what that means for you.

you don’t like jackfruit. there’s a couple trees growing in the greenhouse out back, past the weapons training tents and the exit used for scavenging groups.

you kind of like tangerines. a lot of them grow in the greenhouse.

you like joy. yeri is assigned as your assistant more often than not, and though she talks too much, you like her too.

you don’t know much else about yourself, and it’s a strange place to be in, where you are trying to just be but you do not have the capacity to do so.

“hey.”

you look up. a, frankly, beautiful man with pointed, delicate features and longer black hair hovers near the entrance of the kitchen, his hands stuffed in his pocket. his eyes sparkle under the bright fluorescent lighting.

Before the Invasion, he may have looked kinder, sweeter, but his eyes have a hardened look to them you've seen in everyone you'd come across since the Invasion. he's pretty though, unbelievably so despite the circumstances of life now.

his movements, however, are stilted, awkward, and you notice the way he fidgets with his fingers, even when he stuffs his hands in his pockets when he notices you looking at his hands.

you understand the fidgeting - you got into the habit of fiddling with the old pocketknife you swiped from one of the houses you'd holed up in long ago. maybe, he was the same. sector one allowed for everyone to carry small weapons like pocket knives, but no one was allowed to take them out. bigger weapons had to be signed out from the weapons room, and you could only use it in the training field or outside the walls. newcomers, however, were not allowed to carry anything for six months. you'd fidgeted a lot like him when joy had your pocketknife locked up.

"hey," you match his tone, watching as he shuffles from foot to foot before he meets your gaze. his hardened eyes hold more confidence than his body language. it's almost unsettling how steady his gaze is. "the pastry kitchen isn't open until after lunch, if that's what you're here for."

he blinked, his gaze flitting to your flour-covered fingers.

"oh," he said, "joy said...i thought it was open, sorry."

"did joy send you here?" you call before he can swivel away.

"yeah."

"okay," you draw out the word. perhaps it's your decades of customer service skills, or perhaps it's because you understand how strange it was to live in a place like this, after years of living beyond the walls, but you find yourself softening for him. "we have some pastries leftover from last night. what is this for? usually joy doesn't send anyone so early unless there's a good reason."

his eyes narrow in suspicion, "is that any of your business?"

you raise a brow at his biting tone. you get it, you really do, the mistrust and the caution. you get all of it. but you're the head baker, and there were plenty of newcomers here since you'd been appointed your position that could force at least a civil tone, despite their misgivings.

"yes, it is entirely my business," you responded, frowning at him. "do you really want to piss off the head baker at the only bakery in sector one?"

he tenses at your response, glancing away. he mutters something under his breath.

you cross your arms, "excuse me? i didn't catch that."

"sorry," he mumbles.

"it's fine. just don't do it again. i wouldn't want to have to start a wall of shame because of you," you respond.

he snorts a little, rolling his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders has lessened the smallest bit, at least. after a beat, he says, "my friend is upset, and i wanted to get him something to make him feel better. he's a big fan of anything sweet. joy said to come here."

"anything specific for...?"

"his name is mingi."

"sounds like a cookie type of guy."

the pretty man says, "he is."

"well, i have some baking right now, if you'd like to wait a few minutes," you wipe your hands on your apron, before you meet his steady, almost unsettling gaze, and you ask, "and what about you? what kind of pastry guy are you?"

"I don't really like pastries anymore," the man shrugs as he breaks eye contact with you. you get that, too.

"that's fair," you say.

he leans against the wall, and the room falls into silence. you take that as a sign to return to your work, kneading the dough before letting it settle in a small bowl. you already have a few loaves of bread done settling. you can feel his eyes on you as you work. you're not sure if you like it or not.

the oven beeps - you'd been shocked to find a working oven in a world like this, so shocked in fact that you did not ask how the electricity was so constant, or how the pastry kitchen was so state-of-the-art. the kitchen used to cook was down the hall, and it was much bigger, with more staff than this one.

you take the cookies out, and the smell of baked chocolate chip cookies fills the little pastry kitchen.

the man stares in awe - at least you think that is it with the way his eyes widen, twinkling slightly under the bright fluorescent lighting. he seems to be fighting a grin.

you ramble, as you wait for the cookies to cool, "one of the groups found a couple packs of chocolate chips in an underground bunker. i didn't think i'd have these again, honestly. everyone's going to lose their minds."

you look up, and the mans expression is twisted, his brows furrowed, and frown prominent.

he doesn't say anything, so you don't push it.

instead, you pick up a ceramic plate, and place two warm cookies on it. they're hot to the touch, even through the plate. you hold out the plate to him, and you say, "here's one for your friend mingi, and one for you..."

you trail off, waiting patiently.

"yeosang," he says, after a long moment. "it's yeosang."

"well, yeosang," you say, smiling as he takes the plate, "bring back the plate. washed. or i really will create a wall of shame just to put up a big picture of you."

he nods briskly, his other hand shoved in his pocket.

you don't know if you like yeosang or not.

[wordstro]

in this place, full of lies: series masterlist

setting: in this post-apocalyptic world, also known as After, there are three undeniable truths agreed upon by all those who have survived. one, whatever those things in the sky are, that hang so close to the moon, floating in and out of the clouds, have to be the cause of all this. two, there is something in the black fog and it will kill you. and, three, do not, under any circumstances, go outside at night.

-

series 1: in this place, full of lies [completed]

synopsis: when the world ends, you are left to wander like a ghost from town to town for so long, you start to believe you are the last person left on earth. at least until a group of men rob you at knifepoint, and one of the robbers is none other than your ex-boyfriend, choi san. while you spent too much time wandering ghost towns alone, the rest of the world learned to survive, for better or for worse. including san.

genre: gender neutral y/n, ex!san, post-apocalypse au, aliens/monsters/possession, angst

warnings: depictions of violence, death, injuries, emotional manipulation, grief, lots of swear words, mentions of abuse, su!cide, and murder, basically any warnings that is typical of an apocalyptic setting

chapters:

i don’t owe you shit.

so, why haven’t we tossed them out yet?

you’re not a stranger.

get out.

lucky you. i only allow one escape attempt before i start chopping off limbs.

is that a threat?

stop fucking projecting.

do you want me dead that badly?

you’re going to have to trust me on this.

i couldn't just stand by and watch.

do you know the tragedy of antigone?

you didn't know?

it was necessary.

i like to call it a mutually beneficial relationship.

look closely. no one ever really dies here. this is the sanctuary, after all.

i want this place to fucking burn.

he's playing with his food.

what else am i supposed to do?

what else do we have to lose?

i can't fix this, can i?

-

series 2: sector one [ongoing]

synopsis: the end of the world isn’t so bad. you don’t have to deal with crippling debt or working a double when you’d rather be sleeping anymore. you even get more sleep now than you ever had before the Invasion. as a matter of fact, the end of the world is easy. you only need to do three things: do not go out after sunset, do not get attached to anyone or anything, and survive. it couldn't be any easier. at least until you enter sector one.

genre: mingi x y/n, gender neutral y/n (different y/n from previous series), past hongjoong x mingi, post-apocalypse au, aliens/monsters/possession, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, i like to think this will be a slightly happier ending lol

warnings: depictions of violence, death, injuries, emotional manipulation, grief, lots of swear words, mentions of abuse, su!cide, and murder, basically any warnings that is typical of an apocalyptic setting, mentions of other groups (heavy on red velvet members), this y/n is much more selfish than the one from the previous series.

chapters:

welcome to sector one.

it's for my friend.

you're safe in sector one.

-

extras:

ao3 link for this story

astro au set in the same universe

ask regarding more information on the alien species

yeosang's background

[wordstro]

[20] apocalypse + ex! san + "i can't fix this, can i?"

part 19 | masterlist 

a/n: 9k words whew. also the final part! thank you everyone for showing so much support for this! i love you all!!! warnings for some very existential talks, mentions of su1c1de once again, and some setting-typical gore descriptions. i am very sorry for how this ends lol........i will say this ended a little differently than originally planned though.

-

"how does this thing always survive?" you ask san, fiddling with the beat up radio.

san chuckles, shrugging, "if the internet still existed, i'd give this thing five stars."

you flip the radio in your hands for a moment, the grooves and scratches scraping at the pads of your fingertips. the volume button is beginning to come off. you carefully clip to your belt loop and decidedly ignore the memories of the sanctuary the thing dredges up. you'd decided long ago that you wouldn't talk about the place. in fact, you're yet to visit the burnt remains, despite knowing how close it is to your cabin.

you look up at san. he sits on the remnants of a broken brick wall in front of one of the more damaged houses. someone crashed a small pickup truck through the wall. you both already scoured the house in search of anything salvageable. all that was left was broken glass and plates all over the floor. the walls were stripped as bare as the pantry. even the bedroom mattresses were stripped of all its bedding. you took great care not to look to far into it, as you usually did when you broke into abandoned homes in search of food or shelter, but five minutes ago, you both came upon a locked attic door and the stench of rotting flesh, maggots crawling along the hallway floor. how either of you can make jokes, or just...move on, when something like that sits mere meters from you is yet another thing to feel guilty about.

san kicks his feet, his hair falling into his eyes. you say, "your hair is too long."

"my hairstylist is all booked out this month," san says.

you can't help but laugh.

san gives you a small smile, his gaze lingering on your face for a long moment. you're unsure, sometimes, what you're supposed to do when you catch him lingering like that. you figure it makes sense. he thought you were dead for months upon months. he's going to look at you like he's trying to remember details of your face he'd forgotten. you give him a pass for that because, frankly, it's understandable. still, you find yourself trailing off, gaze falling to the radio once more. you don't want to deny him that, especially when you let him believe you were dead for so long, and you don't necessarily hate the lingering moments, but you don't know what to do with it. the way it makes you a little nervous, the way it makes you look away, you don't want to examine that. it's baggage you're determined to never ever unpack.

there's a beat of silence before san points at the radio clipped to your belt loop, "i'll bring extra batteries next time. i think the convenience store south of the bunker should still have some."

you sigh, "you really don't have to. i can find some on my own."

it's been four weeks since you saw san again, and you've seen him every week since then. four days. once a week. for four weeks. you'd both agreed on it after that first day, and maybe you were a total idiot to take on his offer, to let him back into your life after everything, but everything he had said that day was not wrong.

you'd thought about it all that first week. you spent so many nights wide awake, curled on your side and listening to the faint clicking noises beyond your barricaded door as you mulled over every single word san had said to you, and how he said it to you.

that second time, you'd stood far enough from san that you both had to cup your hands around your mouths to shout at each other so the other could hear, and you'd yelled, "i'm not going back to that bunker."

san said, "i don't blame you."

the look in his eyes was...sad. you'd wondered during your nights wide awake if he was ever upset with his friends for what happened. you'd wondered how that day went after he thought you'd burned yourself with the sanctuary to save him and his friends, the same friends who put you in that damned place in the first place.

you'd said, "and i don't want to go anywhere near the sanctuary. ever. understood?"

"i don't...i'd never ask you to go back there. i haven't been back since the day...since the day after. when i tried to find your body," san called, shrugging. he kicked at grass, hands in his pockets, lips pursed.

something in your chest curled at the thought. he'd even gone back there.

you'd also called, "you don't get to know where i'm staying."

san nodded, "i understand."

from then on out, the conversation faded out and you were both left in silence. somehow your weekly meetups turned into hours of rummaging through houses and stores for food and supplies to split between the two of you.

neither of you really said much, but the company was enough. at least for you. sometimes, san would hold a tree branch back for you as you trekked through trails to explore smaller towns and farms off the highway, or warn you of sudden steps. sometimes, he'd ask if you were hungry and conjure snacks.

your meetups consisted of the smallest of small talks, yet the silences were...comforting. perhaps, you've gotten used to having a companion with you - from spending most of your chore time at the sanctuary at jongho or san's side to all that time with mrs. kim - and that's why you've started finding yourself looking forward to seeing san every week.

that was something you did not wish to delve too far into. so you decided that your time with san reminded you of your time with mrs. kim. to an extent, it really did. it was as if you were both living in a little bubble of peace that did not make sense in a world like this, and it brought you a moment of serenity you thought had walked away with mrs. kim.

but the dread? the anxiety? it was still there. worse than when you sat in limbo with mrs. kim. it sat at the pit of your stomach and draped itself over your shoulders, whispering of how things were going too smoothly. how this was too good to be true.

now here san is giving you the same damned radio you'd left your apartment in the city with. it's like an omen, especially coupled with what you'd both left behind in that house. death always follows this radio, you've learned, and that thought has your stomach churning.

you glance over his shoulder, at the broken house, fingers curling around the radio.

"i know i don't have to, but i want to." san's voice drifts through the silence, "besides, i think we should have some way to communicate throughout the week."

"i..." you turn the radio over in your hands, once, twice, before you say, "okay."

you turn your gaze from san to the broken pickup truck lodged into the wall san sits on. there's a pair of fuzzy purple dice hanging from the crooked rearview mirror inside the car.

san says, "i wasn't going to give that to you, but..."

your gaze flits to san, from the way he fiddles with his fingers in his lap, to the way he turns slightly to look back at the house. he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. the expression on his face is a familiar thing, something you'd feel lodge in your throat whenever you'd stare at that damned rifle for far too long. live with it, live with it, live with it. your own words echo in your head like a mantra, like a prayer, like a plead.

the thing about the end of the world is that death is a constant. every morning, you'd come upon mangled bodies that you believed were the fog's doing. oftentimes you'd come upon scenes just like the one in the house, bodies hanging from chandeliers and ceiling fans, or worse, with guns lodged in their mouths or knifes clutched in their fingers. it's normal, even, you'd say. each body was another guilty notch on your list of reasons to live, and maybe that does make you a naïve idiot, to let everyone else's problems become your burden. or maybe that's just what you're wired to do. either way, you find yourself frowning at san, at the clear unsaid words lingering in the air between you both.

you say, "i'm not going to kill myself, if that's what you're afraid of."

san blinks.

you roll your eyes, but your heart is lodged in your throat, and live with it rings loud in your ears and you say, "i killed all those people when i blew the sanctuary up, and that guilt eats me alive every single fucking day. i don't think i'm allowed to just...die. not yet."

san's fingers curl into fists in his lap. he says, "why did you do it? why didn't you just come with us?"

"if the sanctuary survived, they wouldn't have left us alone."

"that was never your burden to bear," san says with a sigh, dragging both hands through his hair. his eyes glitter with an unreadable emotion. those words make you come to a pause. no one's ever said that to you. not in so many words.

"should i have let jongho do it, then?"

san gives you a small smile. he says, "i guess not."

then you both fall into silence as he walks you to the edge of the forest and you both say your goodbyes.

~.~.~.~.~

with the radio comes conversations throughout the week. they're sporadic, but you keep the radio clipped to your belt even as you're wringing out laundry in the clearing outside the cabin or exploring the woods to find dry wood for fire. they start off as small pleasantries, reports even about your days.

things like:

"jongho is trying speech therapy. yunho says it'll work." san said one evening, while you were boarding up the door and windows for the night. your heart did a little flip at the name and the confirmation that he's alive and okay, despite everything.

"is yunho even a trained doctor?"

"not a paramedic like you were. but he was two years into med school when everything happened. doubt any residency would have ever given him half the amount of hands on training he's had since everything went to shit though."

and:

"mrs. kim tried to teach me how to make rabbit and squirrel traps, but we're both awful at it," you'd explained once.

san said, "i can teach you next time. apparently that's one of my talents."

"setting up traps?" you'd asked, "sounds about right."

san had groaned, "that's fair."

even:

"do you want me to bring you some books? no one reads around here."

"please," you said, "i've been reading the same book for months. i think i can recite it word for word now."

san laughed, "you can't just say that and not recite it word for word. go on."

and sometimes even just:

"good night."

~.~.~.~.~

three more weeks pass, and san's kept his word on taking you into the woods to show you how to set up traps to hunt for food.

he holds a low hanging branch as you edge past him. the ground is cold and hard, trees bare of leaves, and you both know you're not going to catch anything anyway. it's the dead of winter, and the animals are sleeping. still, san showed you how to tie secure knots, raising a brow at you in silence, waiting for your permission before he placed his fingers over yours and guided your hands through the proper motions. even Before, he'd never been quite so sweet, but you figured this was because he'd promised to start over, and the san you once knew is not the san of After. you used to think that was a strange thing, and it made you uneasy. and, maybe, it still does, to an extent. however, in the grand scheme of things, it certainly makes starting over easier.

san trips over a protruding root, and the little yelp that leaves his mouth as he catches himself has you giggling. san narrows his eyes at you, but his grin is contagious.

you don't know about forgiveness, or forgetting, or even trust, but three more weeks have passed and you think maybe you're both getting somewhere.

~.~.~.~.~

the trees start to bud around your clearing. you'd missed the foliage shading you from the sun, but the tiny pink buds of one of the trees brings a fullness to your heart you hadn't felt in a while. you'd never stayed in one place long enough to see the seasons change.

even then, winter does not seem to want to leave. it's snowing.

san blinks up at the grey skies, his nose and the tips of his ears pink, his cheeks flushed, and his hair falling into his eyes. white snowflakes stick to his hair.

you hold out a hand, and you find yourself smiling. "so pretty," you say.

"yeah," san says, and you look back over your shoulder to find san looking at you, his dimple peeking out over his scarf. he looked away first, his cheeks flushed.

you laughed. san grimaced at you, fighting a smile all the while.

maybe starting over isn't so bad.

~.~.~.~.~

only a week later, when the snow has melted away completely and the flowers are still tiny colorful buds, you trip over a familiar boot lodged in the bushes. san catches you by the arm before you can smack your face into the hard ground, but that still doesn't stop you from sinking to your knees.

you recognize that boot because you've spent too many mornings staring at them from your vantage point sprawled in the grass of the clearing in front of the cabin while mrs. kim cooked or cleaned or just sat in silence.

you and san hadn't ventured far from your cabin. you still have not shown him the cabin, but you've both been venturing the forest around it recently. the thought of mrs. kim's boot being so close to your cabin brings a sinking feeling to your stomach.

"y/n?"

san crouches beside you, his hand on your back.

you say, "this is mrs. kim's."

you never told san much about mrs. kim, other than the fact that she saved you and she left for the sea before you met san again. still, san's hand stills on your back.

"maybe," your voice sounds shrill to your own ears, "maybe she had a spare?"

and, perhaps you will always be the type to seek out more reasons to feel guilty. perhaps you really are wired for it.

because you stand up, and you start to look, and san his on your heels, quietly following you as you call for her knowing damn well she's not going to answer.

under a tree further north, you find her other boot. it's tied to the lowest tree branch by its shoelaces, the ratty black boot swinging lightly in the breeze.

you step forward, intent on looking further, when you feel a tug on your sleeve.

you turn, and san's hand remains on your elbow, squeezing lightly. his touch is reassuring. he says, "what are you going to do with yourself if you find her?"

you both know damn well you won't find her alive. you can't help the way your eyes start to sting. in fact, you try to stop the tears, fingers curling into fists. you want to shout. you want to cry. you want to understand how the hell she only made it this far.

"she was," you take a deep breath, "she was supposed to visit."

but your voice cracks as you say it, and you find yourself crumbling despite everything. you hadn't even cried like this when you saw san again and you two talked about starting over. as you stand here with one of mrs. kim's boots dangling from your fingers and the other one dangling from the tree branch, your tears do not stop. your chest hurts with the pain of it. your knees buckle. san catches you before you fall, and he wraps you up in his arms. you clutch onto him. he presses your face to his chest and you let yourself sob. you hadn't cried for a long, long time. you've forgotten how to, your breathing unsteady as you gulp for air.

you cry, and san strokes your back.

~.~.~.~.~

san sits on the steps of your cabin beside you, the two of you staring at the mound of dirt in the clearing. you'd dug up the hole and buried her shoes away. you hadn't dug the hole deep enough.

you say, "she told me she helped me because she owed you."

"oh," san lets out a small, breathless laugh. you watch him look down at his hands. the skin around his nails is rough, as if he's been picking at them. that is a habit he'd never had before. it's new. "before the bunker, i spent some time with another group. there was this girl, doyeon. i wasn't surprised she was mrs. kim's granddaughter. she was so nosy and loud just like mrs. kim. we all used to share stories and so many people talked about their grandparents, and doyeon used to say she wished she had the chance to get to know them."

san trails off, and you ask, "what happened to her?"

san closes his eyes. maybe you aren't the only one wired to carry the burden of guilt on your shoulders. he draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his knees. he says, "my old group found the bunker. there used to be a lot of in-fighting. i picked a side, when i should have tried to keep the peace, but how was i supposed to know this fight would be serious?"

san lets out a shuddering breath, his shoulders drooping. it explains why he maintained such neutrality between you and his friends.

"it was five against three that day. me, wooyoung, and doyeon against five guys. things didn't work out. they beat the shit out of us. i'm talking broken bones, lots and lots of blood... we were tied up like pigs for slaughter. wooyoung had a fucking knife in him. i had broken fingers - i don't even think they've healed properly. doyeon's jaw was broken, and she could barely talk. as night drew closer, it became increasingly obvious that it was either us or them. so -" san rubs his red-rimmed eyes, "so we came up with a plan. doyeon thought of it, actually, and sometimes, i wonder if she just...knew what was going to happen to her from the moment she suggested the plan. she lured them out to the front of the bunker. i'll spare you the details, but we managed to push them out of the bunker. it was going smoothly, until it didn't. as we were closing the doors, one of them dragged doyeon out with them. i tried so hard to save her, but...but the sun was setting quickly and she decided to let go. the look in her eyes - i think she knew. woo says it wasn't my fault. either way, she died that night and i couldn't save her. the next morning, there were only pieces left of them. ears and limbs and...and doyeon's hands. woo and i buried her in her favorite part of town and we decided to stay at the bunker anyway. we decided we wouldn't let something like that happen again. that's why it's so hard for the boys to trust people, y/n, and i understand that isn't an excuse, but i think you deserve that explanation. doyeon...i couldn't keep her safe even though i said i would, and i thought i could live with that too, but then i ended up at the sanctuary and met her fucking grandmother." you watch san let out a staggering breath, his eyes fixed on the burial spot, "if anything i'm the one who owes mrs. kim."

you don't know what to say about san's admission. you remember him telling you he'd done horrible things to end up at the bunker. you remember how irritated he had been when you let it slip that you felt safe in the bunker that first night, despite the fact that you were surrounded by strangers. he'd been so angry, and now you can see why. you don't know what to say, so you resort to an attempt at lightheartedness, your chest tight.

"join the club," you mutter, your voice shaky despite your attempt for nonchalance, "i owe her my damned life too, and instead of letting me repay my debts, she had the fucking nerve to die so close to home."

san laughs, says, "she could have at least made it to the sea."

you snort, letting your head rest on his shoulder as you both sit in silence. you say, "if it's any consolation, i'm sorry about doyeon. you tried your best."

he says, "i thought i'd come to terms with it, but when you...i promised i'd keep you safe, and i couldn't do that with you either."

"you tried," you repeat, "that's what matters in the end, i think."

"it wasn't enough."

"it will be."

you can hear the sharp intake of breath, the way san stiffens under your head, but he does not move. he does not say anything.

you hear a sniffle. he says, "you think so?"

you push away to look up at him. he peers down at you, his face inches from yours. his eyes are glassy, and his hair is too long, and his nose is tinged red, and he looks so otherworldly, like a painting. his honeyed gaze curls around your racing heart, and the sun casts gold over his sharp features. you think you understand why throughout history people went to war for pretty queens and kings.

he presses a thumb to your cheek. your heart pounds.

you say, "you really need a haircut."

san laughs. you could drown, you think, in his dimples and his glassy eyes and the rough circles he traces along your cheek and loud laugh.

he asks, "do you have scissors?"

"kitchen scissors."

his gaze flickers over your face. he says, "perfect."

he sits on mrs. kim's once untouched chair, and stares apprehensively at the rusty kitchen scissors in your hands.

he helps you board up the windows and door when the sun starts to set.

he opens the canned food for you. canned food tastes better, you find, when you share it with someone.

he sleeps in mrs. kim's once untouched bed, and you really do think trying is enough.

~.~.~.~.~

only three days pass when you start to notice things are...strange.

not between you and san, but in the woods.

"i think someone must have accidentally planted a shit ton of mint leaves around here. they were too small last time i saw it, so maybe now it's going to -"

you come to halt next to a giant oak tree. its bare branches stretch out to one side, trunk bowed, as if it is a giant looming over you. nailed to the trunk sits a purple piece of cloth. it's flag-like in its shape. it flutters in the breeze. a chill runs straight down your back. you hadn't seen a purple flag since that day you ran into san. you hadn't seen flags since your attempt to avoid the sanctuary. the fact of the matter is that this flag means that someone is out here other than you and san. and they are close.

san's voice echoes all around you, crackly and filled with static. "y/n? y/n? what's wrong?"

your stomach churns as you swivel on your heels, scanning the other trees. despite the beginnings of spring, the leaves have still not returned fully. there are so many bare branches and dead leaves. as you walk, the leaves crunch under your boots.

for a moment, you don't think you should say anything.

but you're starting over, aren't you? you're supposed to try. you don't have to -

a few hundred steps away, another purple flag is nailed to an old tree trunk. your heart jumps in your chest.

you press the radio, "what do purple flags mean?"

your voice is quiet. the ensuing silence rings loud as you step further through the forest, as you come upon another one. it's a trail, you realize, as you keep walking. maybe you shouldn't follow it.

yet you do, even as san's crackly voice fills the silence, "purple flags?"

it takes thirty-six seconds for you to recognize the trail as you keep walking, dead leaves crunching beneath your feet. you say, "there are purple pieces of cloth nailed to the trees, san. they look flags or markers or something."

a pause. "are you following them?"

"yeah," you come to a stop at the next nailed purple flag, your gaze falling on the familiar trees. the clearing. your clearing. you swallow the lump in your throat, your grip on the radio so hard you're afraid you'll break it. "fuck."

"y/n, what is it?"

you say, "it leads to the cabin."

"shit," san's voice is sharp, alert, with an undercurrent of terror curling underneath everything, "y/n, you need to leave now. get out of there right n-"

you turn off the radio, dousing yourself in the silence of the woods. it's not so peaceful now, and every crack of a branch, every rustle of dead leaves, makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. you should run. every cell in your body screams at you to do so, but you find yourself stepping forward. you find yourself peering into the clearing.

wedged into the lump of overturned dirt where you buried mrs. kim's boots is a purple flag fluttering at the end of a wooden stick. there's nothing telling about it. it's merely a poorly dyed purple bedsheet, splotchy and lighter in some parts then others, wrapped around a wooden stick. still your heart pounds against your ribcage. it's as if the shoddiness of the person's work is more terrifying then if the flag was cleanly done, the way the sanctuary's had been. and a smidge of anger curls at the pit of your stomach. your eyes drift to your cabin. the door is wide open, swaying on its rusted hinges.

you back up, one step, two steps, three, until you're running.

~.~.~.~.~

you emerge from the trees to san out of breath, his hair windswept.

you blink in surprise. he surges forward, clutching your shoulders as he gives you a onceover, out of breath the entire time.

your stomach continues to churn, even as san says, "you're okay. you're okay."

you're not sure who he's trying to convince of that.

you are not okay.

you'd spent so many months in a bubble, thinking that everything would be fine. that the end of all things was this gentle, careful, serene thing where all that is left in the world is yourself and anyone you allow in it. that you could make a home somewhere and you would be okay. but the world is nothing like that. you're unsure why you ever thought otherwise. you were in that fucking sanctuary. you were robbed at knifepoint by san and his friends. you killed your mother. you've come upon dead bodies, whether by others doings or their owns. mrs. kim is dead.

you're no ghost, because at least ghosts wander peacefully. you will never find any peace. someone or something will always find a way to burst your bubble. they'll encroach on your space, and you will never truly be safe, and the realization, however late it is, is terrifying. maybe you are naïve. you thought you'd hardened after everything, but you still clung to hope. you look at still san. you still are. to have reprieve from the terror of the end of the world only to feel it so wholly all at once - it's fucking jarring. you hate yourself for ever believing the reprieve could be permanent. as long as those things float in the sky, you'll never find peace.

your hands are shaking. your vision is blurred.

your gaze slides over san's worried face.

wooyoung stares back at you.

you grab san's hands, placing them at his sides, and you squeeze them once before letting him go. you ask, "someone was inside my cabin. they fucking...they put a marker on mrs. kim's grave. purple. everything was purple."

wooyoung is the one to speak, his voice low, thoughtful, "i've been seeing purple markers all over the place, but they never led anywhere. i thought someone was just using them to help them remember places."

"you can't go back there," san's voice is a quiet thing, fragile almost, "it's not safe. i know you said you didn't want to go back to the bunker, but y/n, you cannot go back there."

"it isn't safe anywhere," your fingers curl around each other, "i'd feel safer squatting in one of these houses then staying in your bunker."

you give wooyoung a pointed look, even as you gesture at the dilapidated stone houses around you.

wooyoung rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he cocks his head to the side, "come on, y/n. wasn't robbing me enough?"

"no, actually," you turn fully on him, stepping closer. "let me get a few more punches in."

wooyoung laughs, eyeing you up and down as you round on him. "good to see you're back in tip top shape."

"you really want me to punch you don't you?" you say, fingers clenched into a fist.

"oh," wooyoung grins, tone dripping with honeyed amusement, "i'd love to see you try."

"wooyoung, shut the fuck up," san groans, dragging a hand over his face. san puts a hand on your elbow, and you realize that you are inches from wooyoung, fists clenched, all while wooyoung grins at you without stepping back.

you step back first, glaring at wooyoung for good measure.

san says, "i'm serious, y/n. we don't know who this person is."

"or group," wooyoung mutters, his grin turning into a frown.

san nods, "exactly."

"he's showing absolutely zero remorse, san. if wooyoung's anything to go by, i'd rather get eaten by those aliens then spend a night around your snake friends."

there's a long long stretch of silence. the hairs at the back of your neck still stand on end. the three of you are still at the edge of the forest, out in the open for anyone to watch from the woods. how could you be stupid enough to think no one was ever watching all this time?

"just one night," san says, pleads really, "that's all. just so we have time to clear your place together and find you a new, safer place."

your heart skips a beat at his words, while another part of you is angry you even have to find a new place. you're tired of wandering, and you're tired of feeling scared. you're tired.

still, you meet san's gaze and you sigh. "fine."

~.~.~.~.~

the walk to the bunker had been silent. wooyoung wandered ahead while san matched your strides, his shoulder occasionally brushing against yours.

"i punched him, you know," san says quietly.

you blink up at him. san nods his chin towards wooyoung's back as he leads the way.

"so many times, actually," san smiles a little, "and wooyoung didn't hit me back once. you know him. he always has something to say back, but for months he just...let himself be my punching bag, figuratively and literally, after i lost you."

"that doesn't mean he's sorry," you say, frowning at wooyoung's back.

"in his own way, he is." san purses his lips, "doesn't mean you have to forgive him though. i know i haven't."

you blink. oh. you didn't think he was ever going to hold his friends accountable in any way. you didn't think he even blamed his friends for anything. something churns at the pit of your stomach, and it feels like the strangest bout of guilt. you say, "you love him. you love your friends."

"i think we both know you can love someone and still never forgive them," san murmurs. he looks down at you.

"still," you say quietly, "i'm sorry. your relationship is strained because of me."

he shakes his head.

"it's strained because of their decisions."

"i'm still sorry."

"at least they're trying," san says, and his tone is soft and kind, maybe even a little sad, "they won't hurt you, y/n. please trust me on that at least."

wooyoung turns into a familiar alleyway, one you'd passed through a long, long time ago.

the metal door leading to the bunker sits straight ahead. it's blocked off by abandoned cars, hiding it from view unless one knows where to look. you know where to look.

you take a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. months ago, you wouldn't have conceded with san even on this point, but now you find yourself believing him. maybe that's stupid of you, but you find that you believe him. just a little bit.

~.~.~.~.~

the bunker is exactly as you remembered it. the strewn blankets and cushions. the comforting lights. the long hallway. the way the cold air raises goosebumps along your skin. the feeling that this place is lived in, despite being a metal bunker space.

"you can sleep in my bed," san says, from where he stands awkwardly across from you, next to the kitchen island stools. he fiddles with the hem of his shirt, though his gaze remains steadily on you, "i'll sleep down here."

wooyoung looks between you both in the silence that ensues afterwards, before he turns on his heels and disappears down the dark hallway without another word. you stare after him before turning back to san.

"no," you shake your head, "i'll sleep down here. it's fine."

san looks like he wants to argue, but he just nods. he opens his mouth as if he wants to say something more, but you hear the smallest of gasps.

you look up, and jongho is stands at the end of the hall. wooyoung is behind him, hand on his back. he meets your gaze, and you can't help but smile at him. wooyoung just rolls his eyes and disappears back into the hall, making you wish you could take back that second of gratitude.

jongho blinks over and over and over, and you can't help but let out a laugh. sure, jongho betrayed you, but he'd been a victim, and you couldn't blame him. you really couldn't. here he is, looking well-fed and like he sleeps well, and your heart feels like it's growing three times its size in your chest.

he hovers, and san steps aside, gesturing jongho forward. jongho just stares at you, waiting. you realize he is waiting for permission. that makes you deflate a bit. he likely thinks you hate him, and maybe you should, but you can't find it in yourself to hate him.

so, you hold out your arms, and jongho takes a step, another, before he walks into your arms, still so uncertain, and you say, "you're alive."

he glares at you, even as he wraps his arms around you and hugs you tight. he doesn't need words for you to know what he's thinking. he leans back, frees his arms, and makes a gesture of touching his forehead. he brings his arm down. he keeps doing it. you look at san in confusion.

"it's sign language," san explains quietly, "he says he's sorry."

"oh," you look at jongho. there's a sincerity there you'd always liked about jongho. the apology is something you realize you'd wanted until now. you press your hands to his, and you say, "i know, jongho. i know you are."

jongho nods, over and over and over, as he pulls you into another hug.

~.~.~.~.~

in a way, you expected this eventually. the bunker was only so big.

but jongho asked if you wanted to talk upstairs, and you ended up in that living room once more. san stayed behind downstairs. when you'd pulled yourself through the hatch to the living room, that same feeling you'd felt the first time hit you all at once. the coziness of the room, the home that was so obviously made here, it hurt worse this time knowing that you'd built something like it in the woods and it was encroached upon by intruders. it's like you lost normalcy a second time, and it makes you so angry, yet so fucking sad.

you'd sat on the couch and jongho took out a notebook, and he asked, how are you alive?

you started from the beginning, recounting mrs. kim and your time with her. robbing wooyoung and yunho. jongho giggled at that. you spoke of your time with san. it wasn't a very long story, but it was the first time you'd spoken of it all at once, and it was yours. you hadn't had much that you could call yours since the world ended.

where will you go after tonight? jongho asked.

"i don't know," you said. jongho put his hand over yours. he seemed to be thinking, his brows furrowed, but before you can say more, there are footsteps hurrying down the stairs in the corner.

you look up, and the person comes to a screeching halt at the threshold to the living room, his eyes widening as he meets your gaze.

it's yeosang.

you shoot to your feet.

yeosang frowns as he steps further into the room, his eyes narrowing as he glances between jongho and yourself.

he says, "are you fucking kidding me?"

his voice is loud, angry, and your fingers curl into fists. suddenly, all the anger you've ever felt, from wandering as ghost, from your time at the sanctuary, from learning of all the betrayals, from the death of mrs. kim, from the fact that your cabin was broken into, bubbles at the pit of your stomach, and all you see is fucking red.

"someone's been keep tabs on you and san's first thought is to bring you here?" yeosang grits his teeth as he scowls at you.

"is that really going to be the first thing you say to me?" you ask, matching his tone. you step closer to him, and he does the same. jongho steps in, putting a hand on yeosang's shoulder, and he shrugs it off, his jaw clenching as he peers at you.

yeosang says, "do you want an apology or something?"

"yes," you grit.

yeosang rolls his eyes.

you can't help it when you swing your fist at him. to be fair, it's been a long time coming, and you'd fantasized about this moment often while lying in the clearing in front of your cabin and staring at the clouds pass by. the sound of your knuckles hitting his face echoes all around you. pain shoots through your arm, but the way yeosang doubles over in pain is absolutely worth it.

yeosang clutches his nose - it's bleeding, you realize with a giddiness you haven't felt in a long, long, long time - and glares up at you with so much vitriol, it makes you laugh.

"didn't think i'd do it, huh, asshole?"

then yeosang lunges at you, fury in his eyes.

you yelp when your back hits the ground. yeosang gets a swipe in on your face, and the pain makes you angrier. you grab him by the collar and use all your weight to roll on top. it works for half a minute before he yanks at your hair. you smack him over the top of the head. he gasps. then he kicks you.

maybe this is stupid, or perhaps you should have predicted this. it's not like yeosang ever seemed like the type to take a punch without retaliating.

before you can retaliate fully, though, you're flailing as you're pulled back. you kick and thrash in the arms of yeosang's savior, only to find that he's also being pulled away. by yunho. you look up. mingi meets your gaze, expression unreadable. mingi promptly places you on the ground. you don't move from the spot.

yeosang's nose is bleeding and his lip his cut and there's a bruise blooming under eye, so you don't fight mingi. sure, your cheek is throbbing and he may have ripped out some hair, and if you get the chance you'll punch him again, but for now you're satisfied enough with the damage you've done to stop fighting back.

yeosang is glaring at you, chest heaving.

yunho scowls between yeosang and yourself, "what the fuck was that?"

"he deserved it," you say, with a shrug.

the floor hatch to the living room swings open, and both san climbs out. san blinks between you both. wooyoung only snorts as he remains on the ladder leading out of the hatch, resting his chin on his hands as he watches.

yeosang rolls his eyes, "they deserved it too."

"you're literally acting like children," yunho sighs, shaking his head as he plops down fully on the ground next to yeosang.

the living room looks small with everyone in it. with you leaning heavily against a wall and mingi seated cross-legged next to you, his long limbs taking up too much space, and yeosang leaning against the sofa, yunho groaning with his head thrown back beside him, rubbing his eyes as he does so, and jongho sitting on the couch where you'd left him, his arms wrapped around his knees, and san with his arms crossed over his chest, looming over all four of you, and wooyoung amused from his position at the hatch door.

you scowl, "so i'm not allowed to be angry? is that it? should i just ignore what you've put me through?"

yunho frowns at the floor. no one quite meets your eyes.

"that has nothing to do with this," yeosang snaps, "you have a fucking target on your back and you've dragged us into it."

you start to laugh, and the hollowness of it is jarring even to your own ears, "do you fucking hear your hypocrisy, yeosang?"

yeosang sits up straight, his lips pressed into a straight line. his fingers clench and unclench as he glares at you, "you should have stayed dead if you were just going to bring trouble with you."

"yeosang!" san's voice is sharp as a knife.

you shake your head at san, arms crossed tighter over your chest, "no, i want to hear this."

yeosang stays silent, clenching his jaw as he rolls his eyes.

you raise a brow at him, "go on. tell me how i'm the bad person here."

yeosang says, "every time we leave this bunker, it's dangerous. every week san spends hours outside the bunker with you. do you understand the danger that's putting not only him, but the rest of us, in?"

he keeps his gaze fixed on you, but you glance at san anyway. san looks angry, in a way you hadn't seen in a long long time. he opens his mouth to say something, but wooyoung tugs at his pant leg, shaking his head.

you sigh, turning back to yeosang, "i'm not putting a gun to his head and making him meet me every week, and i certainly did not give the wrong directions to -"

yeosang scoffs, "i did what i had to do to for my people, y/n. the sanctuary was necessary. i'm sorry you got caught in the middle of everything, but i'm not sorry for what i did. we got san and jongho out. we destroyed the sanctuary. everything worked out in the end."

the anger at the pit of your stomach is tumultuous. you want to throw up at how overwhelming the urge to throw another punch is. maybe, in this world, this makes sense. you are not included with yeosang's people, and you never would be. he doesn't owe you anything. not even just a moment of genuine remorse.

"are you even capable of remorse?" you ask.

you don't mean to say it out loud, but your words spill from your mouth, and the room goes so silent, you could hear a pin drop. san is looking at yeosang, waiting for a response. mingi shifts next to you. yunho bites his lip. wooyoung just watches.

yeosang's hard expression falters. it lasts for the blink of an eye, like the flutter of a hummingbird's wings, and you only catch it because you're watching. his gaze flickers to san, as well. for just a moment. it's a tell, you realize, that you've struck something underneath his hard exterior. he clamps his teeth over his bottom lip, lips stretching into a thin line, and his gaze meets yours again just milliseconds later. his face hardens more than you've ever seen it before. if you didn't know better, you could mistake him for a marble statue, carved into the picture of insolence.

he does not respond, though, despite his façade.

yunho frown deepens as he looks at yeosang.

no one looks at you.

so you speak into the silence, "i guess not."

you get to your feet, pushing past san, past the living room table. wooyoung climbs out the hatch, moving aside from you, and he doesn't say anything either. his expression is devoid of his usual shit-eating grin and unfiltered amusement.

in the dimness of the bunker room, you wrap yourself up in a warm blanket - it's the big fur kind you grew up with, right down to the giant floral decal - and you hate how the anger is still there, turning inwards instead. you should have known this would happen. you can't truly start over with san when you share so much history, Before and After.

~.~.~.~.~

you can't sleep. you want to - you'd learned your lesson last time, and if anything the bunker is safe from the aliens, and you should take advantage of it - but you're overheating under the fluffy blanket, and the battery powered light at your side, even at it's lowest setting, is too bright. yunho brought it down for you, wordless in his exchange before he headed back through the hall. you didn't hear the opening of the hatch, so you figured he must have gone into one of the rooms lining the narrow hall. you don't want to turn off the light completely. total darkness unsettles you.

you contemplate going up to the living room and finding a book to occupy your time. at least this time you wouldn't be sneaking around.

before you can, you hear the creaking of the hatch - you'd memorized the sound, a series of cranks and a long squeak followed by a full thud - and you go still in the blanket, peeking over to the dark hall. just in case.

moments later, a shadow appears at the end of the hall. the shadow stretches up onto the ceiling due to the light from your lantern.

your fingers curl around the edge of the blanket as you keep your eyes fixed on the figure, even as you continue to pretend to sleep.

"i know you're awake," san's soft voice fills the bunker. he sounds exhausted.

you sit up. san comes closer. you dial up the brightness of the lantern, illuminating his face. you watch, leaning back on your elbows, as san takes a seat beside you and the lantern, his arms winding around his knees as he chews on his bottom lip.

it's so silent for so long, before san murmurs, "i can't fix this, can i?"

"no," you tug the warm blanket closer as you shake your head, "but at least we tried."

"i can go with you and -"

"no," you interrupt him. you can see it in the furrowed brows, in the way he frowns, that he's going to suggest something stupid. something he'll eventually resent you for. "we said we wouldn't lose ourselves in each other this time, didn't we?"

"y/n."

"you love them," you say, and your heart feels like it's being ripped from your chest. this is worse, somehow, then the anger that had been churning in you earlier. "for better or for worse, you love them. wooyoung, yunho, mingi. yeosang. they are your family. you can’t forgive them, but you can still stay with them. i can't. so i will not and cannot ask you to leave them for me, san."

in the low warmth of the lantern, san's features are softer than ever. his eyes remind you of the earth after rain. you watch as he reaches out, as he slowly presses his fingers to your cheek. first the pads of his fingertips, light as feathers, and then heavier touch of his calloused palms, his thumb. he draws small lines along your jaw, and he looks at you like he is committing you to memory, like he is determined to etch your likeness into the recesses of his mind.

his thumb traces down your jaw, along your cheek, to your hairline. around and around and around.

his wet eyes dance in lanternlight.

he says, quietly, "i'm sorry i wasn't enough."

you shake your head, and you swallow the lump in your throat, "these past few months, you were more than enough. you were everything. you are everything." your fingers curl into fists around the blanket wrapped around you, "i'm glad we at least got a little time together. without all the fighting."

"i'm going to miss you," he says quietly, "i'm always going to miss you."

"me too," you whisper, unable to articulate fully how much you agree. you'll miss him in the next life, too, you think.

his fingers brush along your forehead. then he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead. it's short and sweet, and the warmth of his hand on your cheek is enough to make you truly feel like he's ripped the rest of your heart out with that alone. he already has so many pieces of your heart, and now he's taken the rest of it.

the silence between you both is heavy. loaded. it is everything said and unsaid all at once. everything and nothing. it's you and san as you were Before, and as you are Now.

you clear your throat, leaning away to pat the spot next to you, swinging the end of the blanket his way. you say, "tell me a story please."

san smiles, his dimple appearing as he scoots in beside you, his voice soft as he tells you something about mingi stepping on yunho. his voice is soothing, soft, and, just this once, you let yourself relax with him next to you. san brushes at your hair as you do.

the next morning, he is gone. the bunker room is cold and dark, despite the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. the feeling of home you'd felt here is gone, with san.

that morning, only jongho sees you off, and you're grateful for it. you don't think you could leave otherwise.

~.~.~.~.~

one year passes, yet the year feels like a decade. time is a funny thing when you're alone, and you'd forgotten that when you'd had constant company. the things in the sky are still there. the black fog at night is denser than ever. you avoid people now more than ever. you don't stay in one place for long, though the country is too damn small to not visit the same area twice. you've traveled far enough away from the bunker where the radio clipped to your belt loop remains out of range, not once straying north. you visit the shores to the south. you find wild vineyards to the east. you remain at the outskirts of the bunker, never within range, but not quite far enough away. still, it's as if nothing has changed, as if you've never even met san again or ended up at the sanctuary.

yet everything's different. you avoid going north in case you stumble upon the sanctuary's ruins. you avoid the west so you can stay out of the bunker's range and resist the urge to return to your cabin. but a year has dulled all that, and everything different starts to bury itself away until you can pretend it doesn't affect you anymore. you've gotten very good at that.

it's summer, when you finally have the courage to travel north. this will be your first step in letting go completely, you decide the night you make the decision to go north. did you already cry your eyes out the minute you'd left the bunker while crouched behind an abandoned car? yes. did you keep doing that for months and months after? maybe. but, now you're ready to really, truly start over. no san. no sanctuary. no bunker. no fears. you can truly let go.

the hike had gone well. you were sweating through your shirt, and your water was running low, but it was going well. you felt reborn, really, from sweat and the dense summer humidity and the feeling of your skin burning under the hot sun.

as you climb over the hill, your radio starts to crackle. you must have forgotten to turn it off. everywhere you go, you gather batteries for the thing, so it doesn't die. you don't wish to delve into the reasons as to why you do that when you're never in range of the bunker anyway.

you trudge up to the hillside, kicking rocks as you go, ignoring the soft crackle. the sound is more comforting then the silence and your heavy labored breathing, anyway, so you keep the radio on. besides the radio never picks anything up anymore anyway.

some nights, you'd clicked the talk button and tried to say hello. all you were ever met with was silence. it was understandable, but it still hurt more than you liked to admit.

you reach for the trunk of the lone tree on top of the hill, catching your breath, when you hear a voice over the radio. it's unfamiliar, cutting off between words, but the sound still makes you jump.

you'd forgotten what it was like to hear voices. especially voices that aren't your own.

you fumble with the radio.

...four boxes incoming....south....open....roger.......

you nearly drop the radio when you look over the hill. in the valley sits a sprawling camp, surrounded by wooden walls that were clearly built. there are vehicles and people walking the perimeter. you can hear laughter. it's the unmistakable sound of children giggling, playing. chills run down your spine at the sight. you see military trucks at the furthest end. not every truck is a military truck, but many of them are.

your fingers tighten around the radio. the walls have makeshift guard towers. for a moment, hope sparks at the pit of your stomach. you want to trust this place so badly. there are military vehicles. there's organization. it looks nothing like the sanctuary.

at least until your gaze lands on the guard towers. fluttering at the top of each makeshift guard tower sits a purple piece of cloth. it's identical to the purple pieces of cloth you'd followed back to your cabin, poorly dyed and the color of eggplants.

dread curls down your spine at the affiliation. this isn't a coincidence. it can't be. fear mixes with that spark of hope, and you start to back away. you don't know what to do. should you leave, or should you investigate further? are they another sanctuary, or are they safe?

then you hear a familiar voice through the radio, a crackly voice that will never leave your memories no matter how hard you try to drown it away. it's been a year, yet you remember the voice so clearly, even as he says, "yeosang...open....five."

your breath catches in your throat.

it's choi san.

it's always choi san.

[wordstro]

[17] apocalypse + ex!san + "he's playing with his food."

part 16 | masterlist | part 18

a/n: 4k words, warnings for descriptions of violence, injuries, and a lot of panic - similar to last chapter, we've come full circle since the end of part 1 :(

-

"we need to leave," wooyoung's voice reaches your ears, even as hongjoong's laugh starts to grow shrill, until it turns into the same kind of keening a rusty unused door hinge makes as the door is pushed open. until every hair at the back of your neck stands on end and you get the feeling that this creature - this hongjoong - is not the only thing lingering in the dark fog filling the sanctuary around you. the dim fairy lights that are always kept on at the shipment spot begin to sputter out, one bulb at a time, each bulb making a small pop sound as it dies. even the fire from the car they crashed through the gates has withered, leaving black smoke and ashes and the smell of burnt metal. with each dying lightbulb, you're plunged into more darkness, until the silver moonlight is all you have.

wooyoung reaches for mingi, and the image of wooyoung's smaller frame struggling to drag mingi's taller, looming frame away from hongjoong and seonghwa by the back of his shirt would have been amusing at any other time, but under these circumstances, your heart only races. mingi peers up at hongjoong with his mouth hanging open and tears in his eyes, the moonlight casting long shadows over his sharp features. wooyoung tugs once more, and mingi stumbles as he steps back. his head remains tilted upwards as he stares at hongjoong, and the sheer horror and sadness in mingi's expression is like a train wreck you cannot look away from. his stare is sad but reverent, like how you imagine the god-fearing must have looked at the sky when everything went to shit and god wasn't there to save anyone.

wooyoung's voice rings loud and clear, echoing, "now."

"what have you done?" the voice is familiar. when you look down, jihyo is kneeling beside what's left of johnny's head, her fingers curled over her face, black blood covering her hands. the other guard with the slit throat lays unseeing beside her, as if she dragged him over. jihyo isn't look at any of you. she stares up at hongjoong too, her big brown eyes filled with a terror that looks out of place on her. your heart twists a bit at the sight. she laments, "what have you done?"

she's talking to hongjoong. or maybe seonghwa. maybe even to the the things in the sky. wooyoung meets your gaze, his brows furrowing.

that other-worldly voice, the one that encompasses a million voices, answers, "whatever i want."

jihyo seems to just give up at that statement, dropping her chin to her chest, kneeling quietly beside johnny and the other guard, her fists balled in her lap. for once, you feel pity for them, for the guards who chose this, who have always turned their cheeks. they're humans who chose this to survive, but now jihyo is seeing firsthand that survival isn't guaranteed, not even for them. she doesn't move.

you turn to san, and he's staring at jihyo, at johnny, the guard. you reach out and press a hand to his. he tears his eyes off them, to you. he squeezes your hand back, but he does not smile.

seonghwa is still begging, and his voice is hoarse, quiet, while hongjoong continues laughing. seonghwa dangles from hongjoong's tentacle-like limb. it's like a cat playing with it's food. if you look closely, some of seonghwa's limbs are curved at strange angles. it takes too long for you to process that his limbs are angled that way because they're broken. bile rises at the back of your throat. you turn away. san squeezes your hand tighter, yet not even his warm touch gives you comfort in that moment. you never, in a million years, thought you'd pity seonghwa, yet here you are.

"fucking move." wooyoung shouts this time, and you finally tear your eyes from the sight. finally take in the fact that a chorus of clicks is filling your ears. you cannot pinpoint where the sounds are coming from, only that it's coming from the fog that's surrounded all of you in a circle. it's coming from every single direction, as if the night is filled with the noises, as if you are in a glass case on display for these creatures. when you look up, past hongjoong, past everything, the moon seems to be bigger, clouded by a darkness that reminds you of smoke. you can't see the flying things that have always been there, and that finally pulls you from your thoughts and your frozen shock. wooyoung is tugging at mingi, grabbing yeosang's hand, and the desperation on his face is something you've never thought him capable of.

you shout, your mouth running on autopilot as you tug at jongho's elbow, shaking him to pull him out of his shock as well. you frown at wooyoung, "where the hell are we supposed to go? do you hear that? we're surrounded. actually, why are you guys even here? what kind of stupid plan is this?"

hongjoong's voice drowns out the end of your sentence, reverberating all around you, so loud you feel the tenor of it shaking your bones, rattling your teeth, like your standing right next to a loudspeaker with the deep bass cranked all the way up. he intones, "you don't deserve the mercy of death, hwa. not yet."

the tentacle starts to tighten around seonghwa, and the choked sobbing that leaves seonghwa makes you want to throw up. seonghwa convulses. san's fingernails dig into the skin of your hand, and you try to steady your breath, despite the panic settling in your chest.

wooyoung swivels to face you, his fingers still curled around the back of mingi's shirt, even as he lets go of yeosang's hand. he is inches from you, his blood-splattered face and sweaty brow glistening under the bright, bright moonlight. his jaw ticks as he looks at you, but his grin is almost...welcoming, with everything else going on. it calms the tightness in your chest and the feeling that you are trapped, surrounded, and awaiting your death like lobsters in a seafood's restaurant's fish tank. wooyoung's breath comes quick, the only proof really that he freaking out just as much as you are, his chest rising and falling quickly, as he says, "as fun as it is to argue with you, do you really think now is the time to start an argument?"

you open your mouth to tell him to eat shit, but then the ground starts to shake, and you swallow your retort, grabbing wooyoung's forearm to steady yourself. san does the same, holding both your hand and wooyoung's shoulder. wooyoung closes his eyes, swallowing slowly. you look between him and san, "so what the hell is the exit plan? how the fuck do we get out of this?"

your voice is unsteady, even to your own ears.

"we run," a deep, unfamiliar voice curls over everything. you blink, your heart sinking when you watch the way wooyoung's head swivels to mingi. the way yeosang's eyes drop from seonghwa to look at mingi, too. the way san's head whips to mingi's direction too. it's mingi. his voice isn't what you expected. it's deep, yes, but there is a sadness there, in his hoarse, unused voice, that makes the world still. wooyoung lets go of mingi's shirt, pulling away from san and your grip. he rubs soothing circles along mingi's back like he is a small child.

mingi continues looking up at hongjoong, clearing his throat before he says, "he isn't attacking us yet because he's...he's..."

mingi trails off and yeosang finishes, "he's playing with his food. then we're next."

you figured as much, but the confirmation of your thoughts makes you want to curl into the fetal position right then and there.

mingi rubs at his wet cheeks, nodding as he claps a hand around wooyoung's waist a taps him gently before stepping away. you watch him square his shoulders, even as the cracking of bones and squelching of blood and flesh emphasizes yeosang's words.

seonghwa is a spectacle none of you can avert your eyes from. one of the tentacles have wrapped so tightly around seonghwa's arm that it's broken it further, blood trickling down his limp limb. dripping. seonghwa lets out a small, pathetic cry. another tentacle emerges from the dark shadows, lapping at the blood, and you really can't contain the gag at the sounds and smell this time.

san murmurs into the impending silence that falls over you all, "there are four gates in the sanctuary. the closest one is the one you guys crashed through, but there's three more directly north, west, and south from here. if you run, it'll take six minutes, eight minutes, and eleven minutes respectively. the shipment gate is that way."

he lets go of your hand to point towards where the shipments usually happen. it's not nearly as far as the other gates. your heart pounds at the thought of san spending time during his day calculating such accurate numbers without asking for help. you wonder, briefly, which one of his plans with his friends this was a part of. clearly, it was one you were excluded from.

you stare past your little circle, into the dark fog. you can barely see the warehouse door you'd walked out of. you're not sure if you could run through this for six minutes, let alone eleven minutes. especially when you don't know what's in there. especially when rule number two of this world was that whatever is in the black fog will kill you.

"we have more of a chance if we separate. half of us to the shipment gate and the other half to the north gate. seonghwa always keeps trucks ready at every gate but i don't...i don't think any of us will make an eleven minute run," san finishes. his gaze flickers around the circle. yeosang's expression twists. wooyoung takes a deep breath. mingi merely nods. jongho continues staring at the spectacle that is seonghwa and hongjoong.

"no," you shake your head, frowning, "all of us to the closest gate. separating in the fog is fucking stupid."

"and get us all killed at once?" yeosang snaps.

you watch him wince when the sound of seonghwa's femur snapping fills the air. seonghwa barely has the strength to scream in pain. hongjoong's joyful childish giggle follows quickly after.

"it's fair, don't you think?" your tone is dripping with sarcasm, and perhaps it's because your nerves are frazzled, or perhaps it's because you've wanted to punch yeosang since the moment you've seen him again, creatures and hongjoong be damned. either way, you continue, "instead of throwing just one unsuspecting person under the bus so you can save everyone else?"

"oh, come on." yeosang spits, spinning on you. he looks as frazzled, as terrified and annoyed and exhausted as you do.

you step up to him, "it's either all of us or none of us. no splitting up."

yeosang grits his teeth, stepping toe-to-toe with you only to shove you back, "if any of us die, it's on you."

"no," you shove him back, "this is all fucking on you."

yeosang looks like he wants to punch you. before he can, san steps between you, grabbing yeosang's shoulders as he says something so quiet, you can't hear it. it makes yeosang roll his eyes.

wooyoung scowls, "now is really not the fucking time. both of you stand the fuck down."

wooyoung is right, unfortunately. you glare at yeosang, even as you step back, shaking your head. san reaches for you, holding out a hand, but you don't take it. you're fuming and tired and so fucking scared, and maybe you're taking it out on the wrong things and people, but if you're really going to die now, you might as well get that punch in that you'd been wanting.

before anyone can say anything, however, you hear a click of the safety of a gun. you swivel in the direction of the sound, only to be met with the sight of jongho with a rifle in his hand, still fixated on seonghwa and hongjoong.

yeosang pushes past san, past you, quick to react as he says, "jongho, put it down."

jongho merely shakes his head, aiming the gun up. he doesn't have to say a word for you to understand the look he gives all of you.

run, it says.

jongho's hands are strangely steady, even as he aims the rifle, even as yeosang reaches for jongho, only to be a moment too late. even as jongho shoots. the rifle blast is defeaning, and your ears ring from blast. jongho falls backward at the recoil.

but, you notice the difference immediately.

all is quiet. too quiet.

seonghwa's begging is gone.

you look up. seonghwa lay limp in hongjoong's tentacle limbs. blood drips from his head to the dirt. jihyo sobs loudly from her spot next to johnny and the guard's dead bodies.

hongjoong's bloodcurdling scream fills you with dread. it is earth shattering. it makes the ground tremble.

run, run, run, every cell in your body screams.

so you run. you grab san's hand this time. yeosang drags jongho back, wrapping his arms around him as they tumble into the fog. you both follow after, and the last thing you see under the bright moonlight is hongjoong tilted upper half and his furious expression as he surges forward. towards you. towards all of you.

the moment you step into the fog, however, every noise is muffled and you can barely see your feet in front of you. your head feels like it's underwater, and san's hand is the only thing keeping you anchored. you focus entirely on putting one foot in front of the other as you run in the direction you think the shipment gate is.

the clicking noises is expected. what makes your heart race and your palms sweat, what makes you stumble over your feet as you run, are the footsteps and the very human, very chilling laughter inches behind you.

something wraps around your ankle. the fog is dissipating just a bit, enough for you to see shadows. the shadow of san. shadows of people behind you. holy shit. your ankle is yanked out from under you. pain shoots up and down your body as you fall flat on your face. you're already dizzy from blood loss, but the impact makes you see stars. san's hand slips from yours. for a moment, he disappears.

but then you're dragged down, grass and dirt scratching at your back as your shirt rides up. you blink rapidly, as the fog dissipates more, only to reveal -

you scream at the sight of jihyo staring down at you with eyes so black, there's no white left. she curls her hands around your neck. she doesn't say anything, but her eyes are blank with intent, and she reminds you distinctly of the way your mother looked at you as she tried to strangle you in your kitchen that first night. possessed. murderous. whatever it was, you try to kick her off. you fumble, but you manage to jam the flat of your palm to the underside of her chin, and she rolls off you. you scramble to your feet, shouting san's name. you only shadows of things, and you hear shouting. you hear yeosang screaming mingi's name. you hear wooyoung shouting for someone to run. you hear everything but san.

then you see shadows struggling in front of you. it's hard to make out who, but you find yourself running to tackle the one on top.

you don't know who this is, and maybe that's a good thing. you only felt sick when you had to hurt jihyo, despite everything. you punch the man in the face, and he keels over. you spin, and san is gasping for air on the floor. he blinks up at you. he merely takes your hand and pulls himself up as he says, "let's go."

you thought this was too easy. as you approach the gate, the fog is lighter. easier to see through, the bright moonlight above illuminating the truck beyond the date. it's running, the engine rumbling softly. you can make out yeosang and jongho holding up a limping wooyoung. mingi is holding the door open, though blood is pouring down his forehead, over his eye.

escaping can't be this easy, you thought, as you look at them. as san runs ahead of you, his hand still in yours.

but then the ground shakes once more. you turn. a tentacle shoots out from the light fog, and it's so fast, so rigidly sharp, it slices at skin as it wraps around your leg.

you yelp as you're slammed into the ground.

san pulls a knife from his boot, slicing at the tentacle. the impending scream that fills the air is so shrill, it hurts your ears.

you scramble back, getting to your feet, practically running backwards, and you see as many many figures emerge from the dissipating fog. human-like figures, as well as those spider-like creatures. like an army. there's so many.

you realize, then, that even if you get into this truck, even if you drive and drive and drive, they will follow. the creature that is hongjoong and chaeyoung clambers forward, and you wonder briefly what's happened to the other people of the sanctuary. the ones that are in the sleeping quarters, without aliens in their head. what has become of them? what will become of them?

"jongho," you call, though you know he can't respond verbally. you're still staring at the creatures, and all the guards that have aliens in their heads. they all seem to be watching, as if they're waiting for the signal to attack. chills run down your spine at the thought. "how many bombs did you plant?"

you look over your shoulder, and jongho waves his hand in a giant circle. around and around. he points at the sanctuary. you're almost glad you can't see his expression.

your fingers clamp around the detonator you'd taken from jongho and stuffed in your pockets. he'd said he spent years setting this up. if anything, this means he's put bombs everywhere. perhaps all along the perimeter of the sanctuary. maybe just the main buildings. maybe everywhere like landmines.

you turn your gaze on yeosang. he seems to understand the expression on your face, strangely enough. maybe it's because, despite everything, he understands you. he and you are alike. san had said as much. jongho, too. maybe it's because he loves san as much as you do. maybe it's something else. you glance at wooyoung, who is gripping the passenger door as he leans out the window. he shakes his head once, but you don't listen.

you finally look at san. you can see san processing your words. you say, "get in the car please."

you can see when it clicks.

san shakes his head. the devastation there comes like a wave crashing onto the shore, slowly and then all at once. anger and devastation is not a combination you'd wish on even your mortal enemy. not when you have to watch san crumble like this. "no," he says, "no, y/n. i promised - i'm not - fuck, y/n, please, no -"

he barely makes a step towards you before yeosang wraps his arms around san's waist and drags him back towards the car. san thrashes in yeosang's arms, screaming obscenities at him, and he elbows yeosang in the face so hard, yeosang drops him. that brings you a moment of satisfaction at least. but then mingi takes yeosang's position. he's taller, stronger, and it's too easy for mingi to drag san back to the car. yeosang cups san's cheeks as mingi scoots into the backseat, murmuring to him. san just shakes his head over and over and over. he cries your name, and his broken voice burrows itself in your heart. you hesitate when you pull the detonator from your pocket.

but only for a moment.

it isn't fair.

you click the button, and the engine of the truck roars to life, and it is truly the quiet before a storm right then.

it isn't fair.

you'd wanted to get at least one punch on yeosang. you hadn't wanted anymore blood on your hands. not after your mother. you think of the sleeping quarters. of all those people who didn't have aliens in their heads and still turned their cheeks to seonghwa and hongjoong. they looked away while you suffered under hongjoong's wrath. sure, they were complacent, but did they deserve to die? a part of you wants to say yes, but there are children here. survivors. you hear the first boom. another. more. screaming. screeching. hongjoong shouting. you back up, even as a tentacle shoots in your direction, smacks you across the face. you see stars then, and your vision goes black, and your head spins, and you crumble where you stand. the world spins. you didn't choose to be here, and you didn't want any of this, yet, in the end, you've chosen to click the detonator on jongho's behalf.

in the end, you chose to save other people over yourself.

in the end, you've chosen to burn this place to the ground, and yourself with it.

[wordstro]

[15] apocalypse + ex!san + "look closely. no one ever really dies here. this is the sanctuary, after all."

part 14 | masterlist | part 16

a/n: 3.4k - technically the second part of the last chapter, i just wanted to split them up! the next update will take a bit longer, but i hope yall like this. warnings for feelings of helplessness, mentions of death, violence, some really bloody situations/wounds, and bloodloss

-

you awake to quiet. the drunken laughter, the traffic, it's nothing but in the past. everything is too fucking quiet.

but you've woken up.

you're awake.

and when you sit up, you're no longer strapped to the metal table. seonghwa is leaning against the counter, and grins at you when you sit up. you look around. jongho is still standing where he was, head down. hongjoong is nowhere to be seen. san stands at the head of the table.

seonghwa says, "welcome to my guard."

you start to move, despite the fact that you don't want to. you're not controlling your body, you realize, as if you are an outsider looking in. your head tilts into a bow. seonghwa grins. you don't feel a glare on your face. holy shit.

holy -

shut up.

the voice in your head is loud, just like that previous voice, and everything in you says to lie down and do as you're told. but, you were never one to do such a thing.

this is my body now you stupid -

you see a scalpel on the table, as your body gets up. maybe it should have been harder to move, to take back your body, but this body was yours to begin with. it was stolen from you by those horrid things in the sky, the same things that took the world you once knew and flipped it inside out, that made you take your mother's life, that turned the world into a quiet, empty place you thought you'd shrivel away in. so many things were stolen from you. the loudness of the world, your life as you knew it, your home, everything, and you'll be damned if you let them steal your body and free will too.

maybe it's the anger, maybe it's the need to free yourself, and san, and whoever the hell else was taken by these things, but you reach for the scalpel, and it works.

your hands move.

there's screaming in your head, so loud it makes your ears ring, but you don't listen, you just move.

you grab the scalpel, turning it on the back of your head, where the pressures lives at its fullest. the one thing about some strange alien parasite crawling into your head and stealing your consciousness was that you knew exactly where it stood. and maybe this is stupid as hell - and you know it because Before you used to study medicine, you'd taken paramedics classes right up until the world ended - but you find the back of your hairline, fingers pressing to the pressurized spot. it's squishy, like a pocket full of liquid has formed there, and you resist the urge to gag before you hold your breath and stab at it blindly with the scalpel. seonghwa eyes are wide, full of surprise.

the scream in your head is painful in its intensity, but nothing compared to the feeling of the scalpel piercing skin, or the way warm liquid drips down your neck, down your back. nothing is worse than the blinding pain that shoots through your body, the tears springing to your eyes as your head spins. you stumble off the metal table, grasping blindly at air to catch yourself.

you instead find purchase on san's arm. you look up at him through wet lashes for a split moment, just long enough to take in his face. the bruising on his skin, and the sharp angles to his features. there is darkness in his eyes. he stares at you in shock.

that is your only chance really.

you take the scalpel, and you grab san's hair, you search frantically, and it's in the same spot. maybe it's a coincidence. maybe it's a pattern.

but it's in the same spot and your Before brain shouts that this is unsanitary and if you get out of this alive, you both will be left with an infection that'll kill you instead, but you flip it in your fingers and you jam it into the bulbous bump at the back of his head. san screams. san screams, and you catch a glimpse of the san you knew. the san you've known. your fingers curl around the sides of his head, as gently as you can so you don't hurt him more than you have.

san chokes out, gasps really, "jesus fucking christ, y/n. a warning would be nice."

before you can do anything, san crumbles to his knees, and someone grabs you by the hair, dragging you back once more. the pain has you crying out, but you keep your eyes on san, on his warm brown eyes.

you croak out, "get out."

san blinks. you look away.

the wound at the back of your neck is searing, but that doesn't prepare you for the pain of being tossed into the food boxes, your vision spotting as you try to stay on your feet and fail. you groan, blinking up at seonghwa, vision blurry. you feel so delirious, possibly from blood loss but mostly from the fact that when you look past seonghwa you see san actually leaving.

you see him duck behind the table, clutching his head, watch as he crouches and sprints to the boxes, all behind seonghwa's back, undetected.

and maybe, even in this delirious, painful state, despite telling him to leave, despite the fact that you thought about saving him after everything, you thought he'd stay to help you. you thought san wouldn't take the first opportunity to run. but every time you tell him to leave, to get out, to let go, he does. he fucking does. maybe you shouldn't expect him to read your mind.

but, he's left you alone.

alone with seonghwa's wrath, alone in your last moments with no one by your side. alone.

and you think maybe you deserve this for putting other people first in a world where no one else has done the same.

you're going to die, and you're going to die alone.

it's fitting, you think, when you've spent so long in this new world living as a ghost. now you will die a lonely ghost.

seonghwa looms over you, shadowed like the grim reaper, gritting his teeth, his hands covered in a darkness that reminds you of ink-stains. you look down at your hands, and you have the same thing. blood, you figure. the blood of whatever the hell was in your head and in san's. in seonghwa's too.

"jongho! joong!" seonghwa is calling, glaring down at you before he crouches and his fingers wrap around your throat. he says, "i have to do everything around here, don't i?"

a giggle escapes your mouth, choked and gasping, but a giggle nonetheless.

seonghwa's grip around your neck loosens, tilting his head as he peers at you. he asks, "do you think this is funny?"

you mumble, "a little bit. i didn't think it would be so easy. i was expecting something a bit more like the alien movies, honestly. something creepier. in hindsight, your aliens are pretty lame."

you're surprised you can string together full sentences, let alone words that make sense. your words strike a nerve in seonghwa, despite his silence, because he grabs your elbow and yanks you to your feet. you stumble, but he drags you along anyway, kicking away food and boxes to clear his path. he's headed to the other room. to the pit, you realize, your heart racing against your ribs.

you gasp, "is this how you killed chaeyoung?"

you're slammed hard against the wall next to the doors. so hard you see stars from the impact against your wound, and you're glad seonghwa is holding up because you're sure you would have collapsed. his fingers grip your shoulders so tight, you wonder if he could tear through skin.

his face is inches from yours, and his eyes are not so black, nor so dilated. the polite tone disappears once more, as he spits, "i did not kill chaeyoung."

seonghwa has one inside him too, you realize. oh.

oh.

"maybe you didn't," you mumble, unsure what's possessed you to provoke seonghwa when you're barely able to fight back, "but the alien inside you must have. i don't see the difference, though, between the alien and yourself. do you?" you raise a brow at him, "did chaeyoung?"

the sound of his teeth grinding together echoes throughout the warehouse. the lavender lighting makes him look gaunt, like a ghost himself, and there is a sort of beauty to it, you think even in your dazed state.

however, in that moment, you swear seonghwa will strangle you with his bare hands. the murderous expression in his eyes surprises you. he's always looked at you with such little emotion, aside from pure curiosity or amusement, even as he hurt you. the emotion in his eyes is so raw and so startlingly human.

then he slams the doors open and pull you into the room with the railings. with the pit.

as he drags you into the room, you try to struggle, but it's pointless when you're weak from blood loss and injury. seonghwa holds your hands behind your back and walks you into the railing. he's too close, and the hairs at the back of your neck stands on end at the proximity.

he slams you against the railing, so your upper half dangles over the edge and only his grip on you keeps you from toppling over. the blood rushes to your ears, sweat dripping from your chin, your nose, hair tickling your ear, as you stare at the pit of dark creatures, of spider-like monsters with jagged teeth and long, rigid, shards for legs, as you meet the dark, bottomless eyes of one of them, and they do not look away. you wonder, briefly, if it's the same one from before. the familiar one. the stench of burnt hair and rotting flesh is overwhelming, stinging your nose and eyes.

seonghwa leans in until he is flush against you, and you hate the clear show of power, of how powerless you are dangling here at his whim. he speaks over you the way a priest would bless the living and pray for the dead.

"you asked me who i was in the tragedy of antigone, didn't you?"

his voice is no longer polite. it is charged. emotional. it is seonghwa, you think. not the polite, curious creature pretending to be seonghwa. it is seonghwa, one of the founders of the sanctuary. the person who allowed the sanctuary to escalate into a place like this, with pits of monsters and guards with aliens in their heads. the person who is sacrificing people to keep these creatures satiated so that his sanctuary can remain a utopia kept tight under lock and key and guns. your eyes flicker over the pit, watching as the creatures start to gather beneath you. their beady, dark eyes settle on you in a way that has shivers running down your spine. the clicking sounds nearly drown out the sound of your heart pounding in your chest. one set of eyes in particular maintains contact, and it is the same eyes that felt so...familiar earlier. the same eyes that fixated on you. that jongho pulled you away from.

"you were right and wrong. i am polynices, and i am creon," seonghwa murmurs. he is the brother and the king who ordered he not be buried properly? how is that possible?

you frown, "what the hell are you talking about?"

"chaeyoung was against all this." he shakes you and you swallow down the panic. seonghwa continues, "i tried to get her to see my way, but she wouldn't, so put one of the kinder ones in her when she was asleep. she needed to experience it herself. then she'd change her mind. but she...she was an idiot. i'm surprised she had the will to do what you did. most people don't." seonghwa murmurs, and his voice is right in your ear as he leans heavily against you, his grip tight. one little push and you'll tumble into the pit. you still beneath his touch, your breathing ragged. "but she failed. she missed."

everything is too quiet. and clicking gets louder in the silence.

"she wasn't supposed to die that way," seonghwa murmurs, his voice breathy, quiet, right next to your ear. "so i made sure she didn't die. i did not kill her. i saved her." he shouts that, and you flinch, even as he continues, "i am creon, too, but unlike him i wasn't too late. in my story, antigone was spared."

seonghwa lets out a small choked sob, that morphs quickly into a laugh, into an inhumanly polite tone. into the other seonghwa, you realize with horror. the grip on your head tightens, "now look closely, y/n. no one ever really dies here. this is the sanctuary, after all."

you look down, and a small creature crawls into the cool light. it's smaller than the other one staring at you, and it's eyes are just as dark. but there is an awareness to them you find curling around your heart. if you look closely, the rough skin of the creatures aren't actually all black. lavender glints off the black, and there's a hint of brown to this one. the color is similar to hongjoong's hair.

you don't know what to say. you can't speak.

your fingers curl into fists as you stare at the creature, with beady lopsided eyes and jagged teeth and a curious look in its eyes, no, her eyes. chaeyoung's eyes.

"look," seonghwa shoves you forward, until you're hanging off the edge of the railing by just his grip and you're flailing, "closer."

you tear your eyes from her, and your gaze returns to the familiar eyes, the one with the slithering limbs inching towards you as you look, up the wall and towards the railing, a streak of reddish-brown left in its wake. the familiarity itches at your brain, but you're still reeling from the thought of chaeyoung.

seonghwa sighs, "honestly, i'm not sure what happens to us when we take over you pathetic humans. it's interesting, i think, what humans will do for love and how it affects everything. i promised her i wouldn't toss you in here, though her brain must have rotted down here for even asking of such a thing. but it's too bad you've ruined it, huh, y/n? at least you'll die in mommy's arms. maybe she'll be the one to feed off you. that would be quite poetic. i'll enjoy the sounds of your scream -"

you scream when seonghwa's grip around you loosens, when you start to tumble forward, air rushing through your ears. you're going to die. you're going to die and you can't even comprehend the words seonghwa's just told you and the mention of your mother or even the fact that the tentacle crawling up the wall wraps around torso, and then you're tossed backwards. back over the rail. wait?

you blink, meeting familiar eyes, and you think of seonghwa's words, but you're dizzy and you're confused and everything is spinning, but at the same time the familiarity - there has to be a reason for it, the same as chaeyoung still being here, the same as... no. you think you're going to puke. you roll onto your side, meeting those beady eyes once more. it stares at you for a long moment before it dips below the railings. before it disappears.

there is no way in hell the creature is your mother. but seonghwa said no one dies here. and the creature just fucking saved you. maybe, when these things possess people they keep remnants of them. even though you killed her, she stayed with that thing. she still lives on. maybe that's what seonghwa was talking about. you don't know if you find the thought worse than death.

you hear screaming. you look over, and seonghwa has hongjoong by the throat, slammed up against the wall. hongjoong is crying, you realize, the lavender lighting giving him a ghostly sheen, and you've never seen him look so broken. you did not think him capable of it.

his voice echoes through the chamber, a broken, desperate thing, "she was my sister."

seonghwa says, "she still is."

you manage to crawl to your feet. you're not sure why you're doing this. you should run. you should escape. hongjoong terrorized you every single chance he had. you can barely walk straight. yet, you grab the nearest object, a rifle, and heave it up, placing the barrel to seonghwa's head. you click off the safety. hongjoong's eyes slide to meet yours.

you don't look at hongjoong for long, eyes lingering on seonghwa, "let go of him."

"oh," seonghwa starts to truly laugh, "so you're going to help him?"

"i'm going to blow your fucking brains out. would rather it just be you then both of you, really," you prod at the back of his head, "so let him go."

seonghwa releases hongjoong, turning slowly, hands in the air, until his forehead is pressed to the barrel of the gun. then seonghwa steps forward. you stand your ground, but he presses further into the barrel. his grin is maniacal.

"go on, then," he says, "blow my brains out."

you hesitate.

he cackles, before he grabs the barrel of the rifle. you yank it out of his hands and smack him across the forehead with it. that sends seonghwa sprawling.

your chest is heaving as you look at hongjoong. he stares back, his eyes wide. his eyes aren't black like seonghwa's and it's terrifying you think, to realize right then that all this time, he never had something controlling him, that everything he did was of his own volition. however, for once, he looks as small as his actual height. he looks as vulnerable as he had in that library. this may be the only time you've felt an inkling of sympathy for him.

but then hongjoong does not say a word to you. no thanks. no apologies. nothing. he pushes past you and lunges for seonghwa, bloodlust in his eyes, and seonghwa moves so fluidly, so easily, and it terrifies you when he smacks hongjoong aside so easily. when hongjoong tips over the side of the railing. hongjoong's plan was always vengeance. you almost pity him for this, as you watch him trip over seonghwa's foot and topple over the side of the railing. as he screams on the way down, the sound grating on your ears. you wonder, briefly, if the remnants of his sister will save him or kill him.

seonghwa turns on you, and he easily knocks the rifle from your trembling hands. this time, his fingers curl around your throat with intent to kill.

he says, "you're fucking annoying. i'm done here."

he squeezes, and you cannot breathe, your vision spotting. you can't see or breathe or think, and the sounds of you choking on air is so incredibly loud, even over the clicking below, the crunching of bones, and the squelching of flesh. of hongjoong's useless, vengeance-less death.

you just spit in his face, because that's all you can really do.

he slams you against the wall, and your vision blacks out. seonghwa's face is all you see, and it swims until there's three of him, so you close your eyes to block him out.

"i'll kill you," he says, "and then i'll keep you alive, just to make you die again. over and over and over. then i'll -"

he cuts off.

his grip loosens significantly.

you open your eyes, gulping for air.

standing there, heaving with a bloody metal bat over his head, and his head bandaged, is choi fucking san.

you blink at him. this isn't real. you have to be dead. he'd left. he'd left, and san never comes back.

but then he reaches for you, his fingers curling around your waist as he lets you lean all your weight on him.

you stare at san in disbelief. slowly, you reach up, and press your fingertips to his cheek, if only to check that he's really there, your vision still so blurred. you're so tired.

"you came back for me?"

san's brows furrow, his fingers curling into fists at your side. he nods, and nods, and nods, as he says, "of course i did."

[wordstro]

[19] apocalypse + ex san + "what else do we have to lose?"

part 18 | masterlist | part 20

a/n: 4.5k, slight implications of su1cidal thoughts much like previous chapters, this is short, but it's something i feel requires it's own section separate from the rest of the ending. i also feel like some of you are going to be mad about this omg lmfaoooooo. the next part will be the final part!

-

"y/n..." yunho says again, with his brows furrowed and concern in his eyes and you don't even bother to hide your scoff.

you don't say anything. you merely keep the knife pressed to wooyoung's throat. he grins, even with his face pressed to the dirt as he lets you yank the backpack from his shoulders with your free arm. he doesn't even attempt to escape or fight back. that annoys you more than the way yunho had said your name.

you toss the heavy backpack in yunho's direction. it lands in the dirt in front of him with a thud. "open it. show me what's in there."

wooyoung lets out a small laugh beneath you, and it's a mix of a giggle and a snort. yunho, on the other hand, seems to look more and more concerned as the seconds tick by. he doesn't move, merely sits there in the dirt and stares at you.

you dig the knife further into the column of wooyoung's throat, yanking him up by a handful of his hair. that earns a huff from him, which you ignore, watching yunho's concerned gaze flick from you, to your knife, and finally to wooyoung. you repeat, "open it."

yunho opens it. unfortunately, yunho starts talking as he does and you lament the fact that you do not have more than two hands to shut yunho up like you're doing with wooyoung.

yunho pulls out various cans of food, some bandages, bandage tape, and other medical supplies. he drops a pill bottle and it rattles as it rolls into a patch of dried out grass. all the while, he says, "we looked everywhere for your bod - for you. how the hell did you get out of there?"

the we rings loudly in your ears. your grip loosens on the knife, but wooyoung doesn't take that moment of weakness to turn on you. you know he's more than capable of it. you look at him for a moment, and his gaze remains fixed between yunho and yourself. the smile isn't there any longer. the smugness you felt, for finally having wooyoung on the other end of your knife, falters a bit as you take in his expression and listen to yunho toss question after question at you all while he does exactly as you order. it's not nearly as satisfying as you want it to be.

instead, it's all just so loud, so overwhelming, and you find that your skin is crawling with the anxious urge to return to your cabin. to get away from all this.

you interrupt yunho's onslaught of questions. his words have strung together in your head long ago anyway. you say, "put it back in the bag."

yunho frowns, but he does as you say. his voice is low, "where are you staying? we can -"

"shut up." your voice rings over his, echoing all around you.

yunho blinks.

you scowl at him. how does he not get it?

"just put the food away and give me the damn bag, yunho. i'm fucking robbing you, so shut up before i make you."

yunho's frown deepens, but he doesn't say anything. his shoulders slump, his eyes sliding to wooyoung. you hold out your free hand, waiting for him to put everything back. he does so with shaky hands, before he hands you the heavy backpack slowly, as if he thinks you'll take your words back. and san called you naïve.

"what do we tell san?"

you can't hide the flinch at san's name. you couldn't with mrs. kim, and you certainly cannot now. your gaze flits down to wooyoung. his cheek is pressed to the dirt, but his eyes are fixed on you. his eyes are serious.

"excuse me?"

you heard wooyoung loud and clear though, and wooyoung's gaze tells you he knows damn well you did. he still humors you.

he repeats his words, enunciating each word with knife-like precision, "what do we tell san?"

each word buries itself in you like a knife would. wooyoung tilts his head, as if he knows it.

the way he says san's name, with a slight emphasis, as if he's taking the knife his words have become and twisting it just a bit, so it'll hurt worse, makes you grit your teeth. so you press the knife to wooyoung's throat once more, digging just enough for a trickle of blood to slip down his tan skin. yet, wooyoung does not drop his gaze.

"he thinks i'm dead, correct?"

wooyoung rolls his damn eyes. you glare.

"y/n," yunho is the one to speak. his voice drifts over the tension blanketing over you both, a soft, tentative thing, "he doesn't actually. well, maybe he does?"

you frown, not taking your eyes off wooyoung's challenging gaze, "what the hell does that mean, yunho?"

you can see yunho lifting both his hands in surrender from the corner of your eye, even as wooyoung shakes his head. yunho says, "i'm just telling you how i see it. san knows you're dead, like the rest of us believed you were. but he...he still kept looking for you. i don't know if he really thinks - thought? - you were alive, but. but he kept looking. he's still looking for you."

that makes you falter. your breath hitches, and your heart stutters, and you your gaze meets wooyoung's and he seems to catch it all. you hate that. but worst of all, you hate that all this time you haven't bothered looking for the bunker once since you woke up in the clearing alongside mrs. kim while he kept looking. all this time, you tried to forget him, while he kept looking. the guilt you've learned to live with rears it's ugly head, and you hate that too, because guilt makes people do the strangest things, and you don't want to do anything strange for choi san anymore. you don't think you can handle being lied to again. you don't think your heart can take it - it's so tiny nowadays, with missing pieces traveling alongside mrs. kim to the shore, and a more pieces lost in the fog with the remnants of your mother, and a couple nestled between the pages of chaeyoung's book still empathizing with her, and so many more pieces (too many fucking pieces) sitting in the palms of choi san's hands for years upon years. you shake away those thoughts, however, because you're not in your cabin and the sun will set soon and this is yunho and wooyoung. they do not care for you, as you do not care for them.

still, you focus on wooyoung's gaze, the hint of softness there you've only seen once before, back when you'd decided you'd burn with the sanctuary and he sat injured, hanging out the truck and shaking his head ever-so-slightly. for a moment, his brown eyes are not so mirthful when he looks at you.

you don't like it. it only makes you feel pitied.

you're the first to tear your gaze from wooyoung's, looking between wooyoung and yunho instead. "that's easy. don't tell him i'm alive, and he'll stop looking eventually. it's...it's better that way, anyway. it'll be a clean break."

yunho shakes his head. wooyoung raises a brow. but neither of them refute your words. they know you're right. what san doesn't know won't hurt him.

"y/n, i am sorry," yunho says, suddenly, rubbing his eyes, "for everything that's happened. i'm glad you're -"

"i don't care."

yunho clamps his mouth shut. it's almost funny. wooyoung frowns.

"now," you point the knife at yunho, "hand me the bag properly this time."

yunho deflates completely at your words, and it's strange to see when he's so tall. he could be formidable if he wanted to be, like mingi, but he's kind and soft, and you almost feel bad for speaking to him so sharply.

almost.

yunho sighs, "can we at least keep some of the medical supplies? it's the reason we came all the way up here in the first place."

you climb off wooyoung's back, yanking the bag from yunho's hands as wooyoung huffs at you. wooyoung flips onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. wooyoung and yunho watch as you shoulder the heavy pack, knife still pointed at both of them.

"no."

wooyoung lets out a loud, pitched laugh.

"fine." yunho glares at wooyoung, "fair enough."

you back up slowly, keeping your eyes on both of them the entire time, knife raised. it's only when you've taken a few steps back when wooyoung finally speaks. his silence had been disconcerting, especially with his watchful gaze, but his voice startles you as he calls out to you. he says, voice echoing around you, "san comes here in two days for a solo run. when the sun's at the highest point in the sky. he does his solo runs pretty often now."

you blink at that, frozen in your spot. "why are you telling me that?"

"it's merely information." wooyoung shrugs, hobbling to his feet as he brushes the dirt from his palms, his demeanor entirely too nonchalant, "you can do with that information what you will, y/n, i just thought you should know. maybe you can even rob him too. it'll certainly stop him from doing his solo runs so often."

his tone is pointed, a clear jibe at you.

"i don't need information from you," you roll your eyes, "besides, we both know you deserved this."

"oh," wooyoung laughs, "absolutely."

yunho elbows wooyoung, even as he cackles louder, toppling back into the dirt.

you don't turn your back to them until you're at the edge of the forest from where you came. you ignore the clear worry on yunho's face and the resulting guilt that brings forth in your chest. you glare at wooyoung when he curls his fingers into a small wave, turning away with the intent to never see them again.

but you return to your cabin - and you've made it pretty like mrs. kim suggested, with dried flowers hanging from the walls and blankets you took from abandoned houses scattered over every surface and pretty silverware swiped from one of the bigger house's fancy cabinets that you liked to use to eat your bland canned foods from - and you sit with a book you've read twenty-six times already in your lap, your gaze flitting to the rifle you'd left by the door since mrs. kim's departure.

the cabin feels as lonely as it did the day mrs. kim left. bigger. quieter. it isn't fair, how just a taste of human interaction has made it so hard to return to how you were before you'd met san again. back then you'd believed you were the last person left on the planet, and that made the loneliness so much easier. now, you know you're not. even the small conversations with yunho and wooyoung, however unwanted, left an ache in your chest.

even robbing wooyoung blind the way he robbed you didn't make you feel much better. it was deserved, and it felt good to a certain extent, but you can't stop thinking about what wooyoung told you.

a part of you relishes the thought that you've relegated choi san into a man condemned to walk the earth in search of a dead person. the vindictive part of you knows he deserves it. the logical part of you knows it, too. but the part of you that loved him long ago, and will likely always love him, feels so utterly guilty.

that's what it always comes down to, doesn't it? guilt is the reason the rifle is collecting dust as it sits untouched. the guilt eats away at you, and you're going to live with it. just as you told mrs. kim to. just as you know san should.

it's always the damn guilt stacked on top of more guilt.

~.~.~.~.~

you crouch, hidden beneath the overhang of the abandoned gas station you'd passed the other day. the purple flags you'd seen last time are gone, and that makes you more nervous then the possibility of seeing san again. movement in ghost towns is never a good thing. now that you know that the aliens possess people, you're especially nervous.

despite the chill of winter, the sun beats down on you. the sun is warm enough that you're sweating under your two sweaters and the scarf covering your face, but it's chilly enough that once you take any of them off, you'd catch a cold. you can't afford to catch colds.

as the sun begins to move away from its highest point in the sky and you're left to sit there for longer than you hoped, your heart races, and your palms sweat, and you briefly wonder if wooyoung is setting you up. there's no sign of life - not even the scuffle of a squirrel - and it's not like yunho and wooyoung haven't set you up before. the possibility is very real and very much there.

worst of all, you have no idea what you're going to do if you see san. it's not like you can just tap him on the shoulder and say hey i'm alive, stop looking for me, goodbye before running off. he's going to have questions. what if he's angry? what if he does not care that you're alive? what if, during all this time, he the sheer fact that you've been alive and so close, but you'd refused to let him know in even the tiniest of ways erases the progress you'd both made in that sanctuary, however trauma-induced that may have been? what if san -

you're pulled out of your racing thoughts by the feeling of something heavy pressing into your back. the weight of it makes you yelp as you topple forward in an attempt to get away. immediately, you're yanked by the scarf wrapped around your neck, and you cry out at the pain of it yanking on your neck. you're slammed into the hard ground immediately, the dirt and dried grass scratching your face. you're sure you've eaten a mouthful of grass at the impact. you thrash, but the weight grows heavier, and the terror in your chest multiples tenfold. you hadn't felt such terror since hongjoong, and seonghwa, and the sanctuary. it's the same deep terror you'd feel in your sleep, during a nightmare that ended in you waking in cold sweat and crying.

something sharp pricks at the skin of your cheek, above your scarf. your frantic thoughts flicker to wooyoung. maybe he really did set you up.

the voice above you is gruff, and loud, but it's so fucking familiar. he hisses, "you've been here for an hour. why the hell are you staking me out?"

it's almost comical how quickly the terror turns to relief. how quickly you slump into the grass. you try to turn, but his grip on your hair and scarf is painful.

"s - san?" your voice is muffled. it's the first time you've said his name since you woke up, and it feels like a stranger's name coming from your lips.

there's a long pause, and for a moment the grip on you tightens significantly. the knife digs a bit further, and you're sure he's drawn blood. your heart beats so hard, you think it'll jump out of your chest.

then the weight lifts from your back. you brush at the prick of blood and the dirt on your face, spitting out the grass in your mouth. you turn to face him, sitting up, your neck craned to look up at him. the scarf has long since slipped from your face.

he looms over you, and he's frozen to his spot. the first thing you zero in on is how san's hands are in front of him, as if he's using them as a wall between you both. the knife slips from his grip, and your heart pounds at the way his hands shake. the way he backs up, one step, two steps, three, dead grass crunching beneath his worn boots, until he hits the brick wall of the gas station with the dullest of thuds. your gaze flits to his face, and the sun glances off his features, illuminating him in such an ethereal way, you're reminded that you've started to forget what he looked like in these past few months away from him. your fingers curl around a clump of dried grass at your side, rocks digging into your palms, as you drink in the sight of him. he looks at you, too, as if this is the first time he's ever laid on you, as if he's been wandering the desert in search of water and you are the oasis that's finally graced his presence. that's a look you're not used to, and it makes your heart slam against your ribs.

the awe, however, quickly transforms into everything else. surprise, confusion, grief, anger, horror, sheer utter sadness, terror even, it all flits across his face, quick as the wings of a hummingbird, but the impact hits your chest so hard, you cannot breathe from the sheer weight of it. you blink up at him, at the purple-blue bags under his eyes, and the way his hair is too overgrown, and the way he opens his mouth once, twice, thrice, as if he's trying to say something, but nothing will suffice. you understand it. you feel the same. as you stare up at him, you can't articulate a single word. you want to say everything, and nothing, and everything, and anything. your chest fills with a tightness. you're overwhelmed. you stare at him, and he stares back, and it's -

"you came back?"

his voice cracks around the edges, the way glass cracks as it hits the ground. except the glass is your heart, cracking along with his voice. your chest feels so full, like all the missing parts of your heart that you've given to him are crying for the pieces back, like your heart is bleeding and you cannot do a thing about it. you'd asked him the same thing, in the sanctuary, when he'd come back, and you can imagine how he's feeling if he's had to ask the same thing. that feeling, those thoughts linger between you both. so many times, neither of you returned for the other and you've both suffered for it, Before and After.

this time, you cannot even respond the way he did. you cannot even say of course i did, because for months you hadn't.

the pain in your chest is unbearable, and your words nearly get stuck in your throat. you have to clear your throat before you can say, "i didn't think you'd keep looking."

there is a beat of silence before san crumples.

you watch as he sinks to his knees before you, as he presses his hands to his face and drags it through his overgrown black hair. he looks up at you then, with ancient eyes filled with the same kind of exhaustion and sadness swirling in your chest.

"i never stopped looking." san murmurs, "even Before, y/n. i never stopped looking."

you press your knees to your chest. you nod, and nod, and nod, and the movement is as stilted as the way your breaths flutter from your lips.

you want to be vindictive, and mean, and a product of the world around you. you want it so bad. you want to tell you did stop, and you felt better for it. you want to make hurt him more than you already know he hurts.

but san looks so small here, as if the smallest of breezes could send him away with the wind like the seeds of a dandelion.

so you say, gently as you can, "stop looking then. let me go."

san looks at you for a long, long moment. he'll do it. he always does.

then he shakes his head, a small, tiny little thing. he says, "no."

you are prepared for him to listen. to let you go, as he did before.

but this? you're not prepared for this.

you blink, "what?"

san shakes his head, and his hair falls into his eyes. he pushes it back, his eyes are determined, "i fucked up. i fucked up so badly that you...i thought i'd killed you, y/n. and in many ways, i did. i have. i couldn't let you go even when i left our apartment that night. i couldn't let you go even after the world went to shit. and...and i thought i lost you for good and i couldn't even let you go then. i...that's, god, i don't think i can go through that again y/n. i can't lose you again, and i know it's selfish, and i'm so fucking sorry for it."

yet, here you were, thinking he'd let you go all those times, because he never said otherwise. your fingers curl around each other as you try to keep from crumbling before him.

"we're ruined, san," your voice breaks on the word, crumbles the way your heart feels like it's crumbling in your chest. the way your resolve crumbles as you look at him. this is nothing like the arguments you'd had before. san's voice is soft, and yours is softer. the distance between you two isn't as wide as it usually is, and maybe that's because you're closing a gap that is long overdue with words that are even more overdue. maybe this is a testament to how you've both grown, and how you've both changed, for better or for worse. "by our misunderstandings and our fuckups and...and by the blood i have on my hands because of that horrible fucking place your friends sent me to, and the fact that i never even went to find you after mrs. kim got me out of the sanctuary. by all the lies and secrets. we're ruined, san, and i don't think we can move past that."

"we don't have to move past it, but i can fix it," san rubs his eyes with the back his hand, his voice trembling, "i can try to fix it."

"how?" your voice is desperate, even to your own ears, "how, san? how can we fix something so broken?"

"we can take it one day at a time," san nods, his words distraught, "we can start over."

we, we, we. it lodges in your heart, and it almost fills all its missing pieces.

you blink away the sting in your eyes as you look up at the sky, at the things floating in the sky, and the sun, as you turn to peer at the abandoned buildings all around you, at the cobwebs and shattered glass and vines reclaiming the abandoned gas station san leans against. you don't mean to be nihilistic. you were never like this. but you find yourself shaking your head. you say, "you want to start over? in this? there's nothing left to start over in, san."

everything is dead and gone and over, and you've been surrounded by the end of all things for years. what is left to start in all this? even you cannot find optimism, naivety, in such desolation.

san's gaze flickers around you. he says, "all we have left is us. isn't that enough?"

that brings you pause. your fingers curl around your knees. he's right, isn't he? there's nothing left but you. that has to be enough. it's all you have.

"besides," san's gaze flickers between yours, "what else do we have to lose?"

you frown at that question. you'd thought the same thing, when you stepped out of your home with your mother's blood on your hands, and wandered through ghost towns. what else did you have to lose anymore? and then the sanctuary happened, and you learned you had more to lose than you ever knew was possible.

"what else do i have to lose? the only parts of me i have left, san." perhaps, that sounds melodramatic, but you mean it. "and i don't know if i can lose that to you again."

san's gaze softens like the earth after rain at your words. he wipes absentmindedly at the tears in his eyes, and he says, his voice as gentle as the pitter-patter of summer rain showers - something you've missed enjoying while at the sanctuary. "then we're in the same boat, aren't we? to make sure neither of us lose ourselves to the other again?"

"you act like it's simple. like it's going to be easy."

san rests his chin on his hands as he peers at you. his gaze is a soft thing, and it is strangely comforting. for a moment, the weight on your chest isn't such a heavy burden. he says, "it's never going to be easy. that's okay, i think."

you smile, and he smiles back, his dimple appearing. for a moment, the two of you sit in comfortable silence. for a moment, it's just the two of you and nothing else.

but reality exists, and it always sits at the back of your mind, ready to whisper rationalities into your ear.

you murmur, "i don't forgive you, you know. and i don't know how long it'll take to forgive you either, or if i ever do. maybe it'll take a couple months. maybe years. maybe we'll be dead before it ever happens."

"i know," san whispers, his brows furrowed, and his eyes still so soft, "i don't expect forgiveness, y/n. i just want to be able to try to fix things between us, if that's alright with you?"

the way he looks at you, the way he asks, is a testament, you think, to how many years have passed between you, and how much it took for the two of you to be sitting here now. you fiddle with a loose thread on your pants, before you say, "i think that's alright with me."

san smiles, and it's a sad thing, despite the dimples. he says, "we'll take it slow."

you let out a small laugh, and maybe the pain in your chest is still there, and you don't fully trust him, but this moment sits on your shoulders like a warm blanket. for a moment, the world is not as turbulent as it had been. the end of all things can be gentle and kind and careful sometimes. and, so can choi san.

you say, "the funny thing about surviving the end of the world is that there is no end. there's no rush."

san grins, "who knew that could be a good thing?"

"it could always be a bad thing," you say, sighing as you get to your feet, brushing the dirt off. you hold out a hand for san, "you could lie to me again and ruin everything."

san clasps his hand around yours, his calloused palm warm, and he lets you pull him up. his hand lingers in yours as his grin widens, "i won't. i swear it. you have permission to kill me yourself if i do."

you can't help but grin along with him. despite the mistrust still looming over you, and the anger towards his friends and his lies, despite everything, you find yourself grinning along with him as you say, "i'll take you up on that."