#bts canonverse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whats-k-popping · 2 years

Note

Hey there sweetheart I'm glad you have many followers you deserved them and even more! Supporting you always!

I would like to ask for a yoonseok one with Hoseok being the one sick. Having not eat to well and being nervous for his upcoming album, his defenses go down and he gets himself the worst enteritis he could have get. His stomach hurts so much he haves the runs and nausea but still he wants to work up more,until Yoongi finds him and has to take care of him.

Thanks

Thank you so much Anon! 😊 I really appreciate your kindness and support! I'm thrilled to fill this request for you and hope you'll enjoy it. It's my final deliberate JITB themed request, so I went a little overboard on it. 😅 I've never written enteritis specifically before. But I did research it so I hope this is sufficient. I hope you like it! 🫶🫶🫶

Pairing: SOPE- romantic relationship between members

Words: 3770

Warnings: Emeto || Scat || Graphic Descriptions of Illness || Fever || Enteritis Symptoms || Overworking || Angst

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sound of the door slamming shut plays though Yoongi's mind on repeat.

Yoongi scrolls again through his chat with Hoseok, re-reading the dozens of apology messages that are still marked unread. The older rapper has been trying to get in touch with his dongsaeng for three days now. He figured Hoseok needed some time to get over it, but this is startling to feel ridiculous. Yoongi sends a new, longer, concern-filled text message every few hours. But his boyfriend hasn't opened a single one.

Once his concern boils over, he decides to reach out to Jimin. The younger dancer is arguably the only other member as close to Hoseok as he is. If Yoongi has earned the title of boyfriend, then Jimin has earned the title of best friend. The two are inseparable in their own way. And Yoongi doesn't mind sharing Hoseok's attention. But he wishes right now that he would receive some of it.

Although maybe he doesn't currently deserve it. It's been three days since Yoongi and Hoseok had an ugly disagreement. It started with playful banter, as most of their arguments do. Hoseok had tried to convince Yoongi to fly to Chicago with him for his first ever solo performance. But Yoongi adamantly put his foot down, making the steadfast decision that he did not want to travel. It wasn’t an attempt to shun Hoseok. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to be supportive. He simply didn’t want to go through the hassle of leaving the county. No matter how much Hoseok pleaded that he needed his boyfriend with him for comfort and support, Yoongi didn't budge on the matter. After Hoseok all but groveled for over forty minutes, Yoongi's blood boiled from the repetitive line of questioning. He said no and Hoseok wasn’t listening. In the heat of the moment, he went off on his boyfriend. He'd gone as far to challenge Hoseok's professionalism and allude that his solo debut would fail because he's too dependent on others.

No words were exchanged after that. The next thing Yoongi remembers hearing is the loud slamming of the front door. The image of Hoseok’s back as he ran out is burned in his mind.

He assumes the rapper has been staying with Jimin. So he finally decides to make the phone call. Jimin answers almost immediately, "Hyung, I was actually just about to call you." He replies with the most forced chuckle Yoongi's ever heard.

He picks up on the tension in the dancer's voice, postponing his question in favor of investigating Jimin's distress. He hopes it will somehow lead him to Hoseok. "Did you need something, Jiminie?"

"I was just wondering if you know what’s going on with Hoseok-hyung," Jimin admits, "he hasn't answered me in a while."

"You and I both. I actually called you to see if you knew how he's doing. He hasn't been home in a few days." Yoongi admits, running an exasperated hand through his hair. The dancer must be really angry if he's shutting Jimin out too. Jimin hadn’t even done anything.

"He hasn't even come home?" Jimin's voice raises an octave in concern. "You don't think something bad happened to him, do you?" There's obvious fear in the question. Jimin rambles off a few absurd scenarios in worry.

Yoongi doesn’t think anything bad happened. He thinks Hoseok is still just mad about their argument. But if Jimin hasn't even heard from him, or about the argument, he's starting to assume the worst. Still, he knows Jimin's already anxious and he doesn't want to upset him any more.

"I'm sure he's safe. We had a bit of an argument the other night, so I thought maybe he needed space and was staying with you." Yoongi shares hoping it will ease Jimin’s concern. Unfortunately, that backfires. Jimin questions again, sounding even more concerned.

"You two fought? Hyung, what did you do?" Yoongi's admittedly a little offended that Jimin automatically assumes he's in the wrong. But he can’t be too mad about it. It's not like he's wrong…

"We just," he pauses to chew on his lower lip. Just thinking about it makes him feel guilty, "had a small disagreement over his Lollapalooza performance. I overreacted. And might have said some pretty hurtful things to him. I may have told him his debut is going to flop." It sounds so stupid to say it out loud.

"Yoongi-hyung, how could you?" Jimin's using his scolding voice, the voice he uses to reprimand Taehyung and Jungkook. But Yoongi doesn't stop him. "You know how stressed out he's been about his album debut and the performance." And yes, Yoongi does know. "He's been really nervous about it. He doesn't need any added stress right now. You know he's already overworking himself." Yoongi knows that too.

When Jimin's been silent for a full ten seconds, Yoongi responds. "I feel awful about it, Jimin-ah. I know I took it too far. I knew the second the words left my mouth. I thought he just needed time to cool off. But he hasn't even opened my texts. And all of my calls go straight to voicemail." Guilt and regret is usually hard for Yoongi to admit, but talking to Jimin has always been easy. The words just fall out. Yoongi’s unable to restrain himself; his emotions pour onto his sleeve.

"I know you probably do feel bad, hyung." Jimin's tone softens again. The wrath of Jimin is a force to be reckoned with. But as quick as it comes, it goes, leaving a gentle warmth behind. "But you need to tell Hobi-hyung you're sorry. You need to talk to him. In person." Yoongi huffs. Why is Jimin always right?

"I would if I could. But I don't know where he is!" The rapper shouts into the receiver. It's not directed at Jimin, just an eruption to ease his own frustration. But he finds that he doesn’t feel any better afterwards. And he quickly corrects himself before another member, another person he cares deeply about, gets mad at him. "Sorry for yelling, but I feel sick just thinking about it. I want to see him."

"Then find him. He has to be around somewhere." Jimin replies calmly. "You know him better than anyone else. You should know where he is."

Jimin's smooth speech feels like a comforting hug pressed around him. He takes a deep calming breath, "I'm going to go find him. You'll let me know if you hear anything?"

"Of course. And you'll let me know when you find him?"

"Absolutely."

"Once you guys figure everything out, tell him to call me. There's something I need to talk to him about." Yoongi can hear the smirk in Jimin's voice. He wonders what Jimin could want to talk about.

"If he talks to me, I'll let him know."

"He's going to talk to you, hyung. He loves you." Jimin reminds like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He’s quick to hang up before Yoongi can argue.

Yoongi doesn’t know where to start. He does know Hoseok better than anyone, so he knows Hoseok’s favorite place is in their home. That knowledge isn’t getting him far. If he hasn’t reached out to Jimin, it’s unlikely that he’s reached out to any other member. Then Yoongi remembers one thing that Hoseok loves on an equal scale to Yoongi and the rest of the members- ARMY. He opens social media to see if Hoseok’s posted anything recently that might give him a clue about the dancer’s location.

He finds an Instagram story posted 18 hours ago. It’s a mirror selfie. Yoongi immediately identifies the practice room and knows it’s in the company building. He stares at the selfie, having to flip back and forth between his and Namjoon’s story after the 10 seconds pass for Hoseok’s. Hoseok looks tired, and uncharacteristically pale. He looks small, but it may just be because everything he’s wearing is at least three sizes bigger than his body. His face is mostly covered by a low sitting bucket hat. And a caption to remind ARMY that he’s doing everything he can to make sure his debut is a success. Yoongi feels that comment is directed more at him than ARMY though. He thinks Hoseok posted it as a clue.

He starts his search from there. He knows at least Hoseok was at the company building 18 hours ago. Maybe he’s still there, living out of his studio. Or maybe someone from the company has seen him and knows where he is. It’s a starting point. So Yoongi makes the short drive over to the company and shoots up the elevator to the dance studio. He finds that same studio reserved for an ENHYPHEN practice.

Next he wanders the halls until he gets to Hoseok’s studio. The door is locked, but Yoongi knows the passcode and lets himself inside. Hoseok’s not there. Though Yoongi speculates he recently was. Their production software is open on his screen. Sheet music and lyric papers are scattered on the desk. His phone is buried among the chaos. When Yoongi picks it up, he notices that the device is dead. He graciously plugs it into the cord that Hoseok keeps in the USB port of the tower powering his desktop and watches for the little battery symbol to light up. He then sets that aside.

When he wanders closer to the work station, he has to throw his hand over his nose. He’s nauseated by the smell coming from Hoseok’s studio waste bin. He immediately recognizes the stench as vomit, but still peeks into the bin to confirm. There’s a bag a quarter filled with brown liquid and undigested stomach contents. Yoongi knows it must have been Hoseok. He wonders how many times Hoseok’s thrown up as he ties off the bag and carries it down to the trash chute at the end of the hall.

Yoongi returns and waits again for Hoseok. He has to come back eventually. The man can’t go more than an hour without using his phone. He sits himself on Hoseok’s oversized couch and keeps his eyes trained on the door.

Hoseok does return, but not how Yoongi expected him to be. Hoseok shuffles slowly through the door, hunched over with an arm clutching his middle and a grimace on his sweaty face. His knees wobble as if Hoseok’s just ran 10 kilometers to get there, but Yoongi thinks that’s hardly the case. A soft breeze would be enough to knock him over.

The dancer doesn’t even notice Yoongi sitting on the couch among his many pillows as he makes his way back to his desk. He practically collapses into the desk chair and has to yank himself back toward the computer. His movements are slow and it seems like even the slightest click causes him pain. Yoongi watches in silence and Hoseok continues to attempt to work through his obvious suffering. He shoots Jimin a quick text to let him know he’s found Hoseok, but to hold off on reaching out.

Yoongi knows he should intervene. He knows he should jump in and force Hoseok to take a break. But he isn’t sure where to start. He wants to apologize for how he acted, how he spoke the other night. But Hoseok doesn’t look like he has the energy to have that conversation right now. He contemplates just jumping in and taking care of him, but he doesn’t want to do that if Hoseok’s still mad about their fight. It’s a paradoxical situation that Yoongi can’t think himself out of. All the answers seem wrong.

It’s not until Hoseok burps up a stream of liquid that splatters loudly inside the unbagged garbage bin that Yoongi jumps in. He’s off the couch and by Hoseok’s side in less than a second. “Easy, love. Take it easy.” He knows how emetophobic Hoseok is. It pains him to know that Hoseok was through this alone. “Just let it out. You’ll feel better. You’re doing great.” He coaxes with gentle ministrations along the dancer’s skin as more vomit spews from his mouth. Hoseok doesn’t immediately push him away, Yoongi takes that as a sign to continue.

Hoseok pants heavily with his face still hovering over the bin. Silent tears run down to the tip of his nose and mix with the sick mess coating the plastic. When he sniffles in an attempt to slow the tears, Yoongi finally realizes he’s crying. “Hobi. Hobi, baby. Tell me what hurts.” He uses one finger to lift Hoseok’s chin, guiding them to make eye contact.

Looking into Yoongi’s soft, innocent eyes only makes him cry harder. His shoulders shake with violent sobs. “Wh-Why are you-ou he-here.” He cries out between hiccuping breaths.

Yoongi gasps, taking a step back. He didn’t mean to upset Hoseok. But he guesses the younger is still mad at him. He takes a deep breath and goes in for the apology, “Oh, Hob-ah.” He uses a tissue to wipe away the rivers of tears that pour down his puffy cheeks. Hoseok allows it, trying to measure his breathing. “I came to apologize to you about the other night.” Hoseok wipes his eyes in waiting. Yoongi takes a deep breath before continuing. “Hobi, I am so sorry for the things I said the other night. I know how hard you’ve been working, and how nervous you are. It was insensitive of me to use that against you. I want to make it up to you.” Yoongi takes Hoseok’s hand into his own, using his thumb to rub over the soft sweaty skin on the dancer’s palm. “Can you forgive me?”

Hoseok, again, doesn’t pull away. He wants to stay mad at Yoongi. He wants Yoongi to feel the consequences of his hurtful actions. But he also doesn’t feel well. He wants to be cuddled and pampered just a bit. He wants someone to rub his stomach and play with his hair because it makes him feel better. He wanted someone to break into his studio out of concern and be his knight in shining armor. God, he loves Yoongi so much. But not enough to just let him off the hook. “I can’t believe you told me my debut would fail. I thought you believed in me.” Hoseok reminds him, punctuating the sentence with a sob.

It stings like a knife in Yoongi’s chest to be reminded. But he knows he deserves it. What Yoongi said to him probably stung even worse in the moment. “I do believe in you, jagi.” Yoongi clasps his hand tighter. “Hoseok, everything you touch turns to gold. I was an idiot. I am an idiot. And idiots say stupid, meaningless, hurtful things sometimes. Even to the people they love the most.” Yoongi sheds a tear. Then five. Then 10. Then too many to count because they just don’t seem to stop.

The weight of the situation hurts, he can’t mask this raw emotion he has looking at the heartbreak in Hoseok’s eyes. He knows he shouldn’t be crying, because he was in the wrong and he certainly doesn’t deserve Hoseok’s sympathy. Especially since Hoseok’s emotionally hurt and physically sick. Hoseok doesn't have the bandwidth to be dealing with an emotional Yoongi right now. So he quickly rubs the tears away, swiping at his running nose with the back of his sleeve. “I’m so sorry, Hob-ah.”

“Hyung,” Hoseok whispers to get the older man’s attention. And he has it instantly. This is the first term of endearment Hoseok’s used. Granted, it’s not as romantic as Yoongi’s used to. But it’s a step in the right direction. At least he’s getting acknowledged at all. “I just wanted your support.” He swallows thickly, feeling another round of nausea creeping in. He’s not going to punish Yoongi any more. Seeing him cry was enough. “I’m scared.” The words leave his mouth in an airy whisper.

But Yoongi hears them clearly. He doesn’t have any words, left absolutely stunned speechless for the first time in his life. His heart aches at the confession, at the vulnerability in Hoseok’s voice. He moves forward and pulls Hoseok into a tight hug, hoping that the embrace would speak to how much support, admiration and affection he has for the younger man.

Hoseok is initially grateful for the hug. It’s warm and tight, a welcomed pressure grounding him. He’s been feeling like he’s been free falling into a void for weeks now. Like he’s been shrouded in darkness. But Yoongi brings him a ray of light. Yoongi’s arms make him feel safe. They also, unfortunately, make him feel sick. He feels the nausea he swallowed previously creep into the back of his throat. As much as he wants to melt into his boyfriend’s chest, he pushes Yoongi away.

Yoongi’s heartbroken at first, thinking he’d moved too quickly into rekindling their relationship. He thinks that Hoseok’s holding a steady grudge. But when he sees Hoseok dive for the bin again, he realizes that Hoseok’s shove was just to avoid vomiting on him. He’s grateful, and comforts Hoseok again not a second later. He swipes fingers through Hoseok’s hair, wondering when the strands got so long. He grazes the dancer’s skin and feels the heat of fever radiating off of him. He knows the rest of the apology and the remainder of the restorations can wait. He needs to get Hoseok home, resting. He’s overworked himself to the point he’s made himself sick. And Yoongi feels like that’s his fault, too.

Hoseok dry heaves over the bin, his stomach completely empty. But he’s been on this rotation for a while now. He knows it’s only a matter of time before the discomfort settles in his other end. He’s taken six emergent trips to the bathroom since he’d started feeling sick. And the persistent cramping and aches tell him it’s going to go on for a while.

“Hob-ah,” Yoongi massages the tense muscles in Hoseok’s neck and shoulders. Hoseok relaxes immediately. “Let’s go home.” He encourages, kissing the crown of the other’s head. “Let me take care of you, please.”

“My album…” Hoseok replies, glancing a second at the computer screen. It’s timed out, a colorful screensaver lighting up the screen. He had wanted to finish something today. Otherwise, all his suffering had been for nothing.

“Jagiya. You still have so much time. Please.” Yoongi pleads, kneeling in front of Hoseok, looking up at him with pleading eyes and pressing random kisses to his knuckles, “Please. Come home with me.” He won’t take no for an answer.

A quiet voice in the back of Hoseok’s mind knows that he’s tortured Yoongi enough. And he’s tortured himself enough. He doesn’t want to take a break, the pressure of debut weighs down heavily upon him. But he knows taking a few days to recover will do him some good. “I really don’t feel well, hyung. My tummy hurts.”

Yoongi smiles, standing up and helping Hoseok to stand as well. “I know, love. You’ll feel better soon.” He guides Hoseok out of the studio and down the hall.

Hoseok has to stop by the bathroom before he allows Yoongi to take them to the car. When Yoongi sees the way that Hoseok wiggles his hips and clenches his ass through the door, he imagines he knows what's going on. He uses that time to go back to Hoseok’s studio and tidy up a bit. He makes sure the track is saved and the papers are organized. He grabs Hoseok’s barely charged phone when he sees it. He throws the whole waste bin down the trash chute and decides he’ll just buy Hoseok a new one. He knows Hoseok hates a mess. And Yoongi doesn’t want his boyfriend to be immediately stressed again once he returns to work.

Hoseok’s still in the bathroom when Yoongi returns. He enters and leans against one of the sinks, waiting. He listens silently to the angry noises Hoseok’s stomach makes. He hears the steady flow of liquid shit and gaseous breaks in between. He hears Hoseok whimper, whine and moan in discomfort. When a staff member enters the bathroom, Yoongi politely asks them to find another to spare Hoseok’s dignity.

15 minutes pass and Yoongi finally hears the toilet flush. Hoseok emerges from the stall looking seconds away from passing out. Yoongi is immediately worried about dehydration. “Hob-ah. Drink something.” He says before he realizes there’s nothing to drink in the bathroom. So instead, he just cups water in his hands and dampens Hoseok’s face and neck. He hopes through the power of osmosis it will be enough to keep him hydrated enough until he can get to a vending machine.

There’s a machine on the lower level and he pays for a bottle of water. In one swift motion, he snatches the drink from the machine and unscrews the cap, bringing it to Hoseok’s lips. The dancer can only take a few sips before he turns away. His skin starts to pale. He looks positively green. But he doesn’t throw up. So Yoongi quickly guides them back to the car and drives. If he goes over the speed limit, Hoseok doesn’t correct him.

Hoseok falls immediately onto their living room sofa when he steps through the door. He doesn’t have the strength to get to the bedroom. Yoongi tries to encourage Hoseok to drink a little more before he falls asleep. But Hoseok can only take five more small sips. “Cuddle me, please, jagi.” Hoseok asks shyly, making room for Yoongi on the couch.

Yoongi can’t say no. He sits down and lets Hoseok make himself comfortable. The dancer’s head rests against Yoongi’s shoulder, his body across his lap. It’s the perfect position so Yoongi has access to his hair and his stomach. Yoongi realizes this too and provides comforting touches. “Just a little nap, Hobi. Okay? Then you need food and medicine,” Yoongi can smell Hoseok’s body odor combined with the stench of sickness, “and a ahower.” He presses a kiss to his boyfriend’s sweaty forehead. “But for now, rest.”

Hoseok starts to fall asleep, safe and content in Yoongi’s arms. “I’m not mad at you anymore, Yoon-ie.” He slurs, voice thick will sleep. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

“Always, Jagi.” Yoongi starts to feel tired himself, the stress of their fight finally falling off his shoulders. “I’ll always look out for you.”

As he drifts, Hoseok thinks of the lyrics he was working on. He thinks he’s finally gotten the concept. He’s found his safe zone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I didn't know I was going to make this about Safety Zone literally until I wrote the final line. Guess it just kinda worked out that way? Is that cliche? Anyway, JITB is so great! I love all the songs. I love Hoseok and am so proud of his debut! Just because this is my last JITB request does not mean it's my last Hoseok request. But we'll see what comes next. However my motivations fall.

As always, thanks for reading to the end! Feedback is always appreciated. And please let me know if I missed any tags or TWs. Please call me out for any errors you notice!

Lots of Love

💜💜💜 Aki

52 notes · View notes

lady-lunaaa · 2 years

Text

Part II: We Carry On (because we have to)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue

Pairing: Porco Galliard x fem!reader

Rating: MATURE, minors dni

Warnings: death stranding au, female reader, post-apocalyptic, description of injury, a little blood, reader trusts no one/porco is an idiot, nightmares, mention of minor character death, grief, slow burn, skinny dipping and eventual violence (but only a smidgen)

WC: 19.2k

Masterlist🕊️

a/n: uhhhh it took a while and you can see why. 19k? I don't know what happened. The plot kinda follows canonverse in game, they're on parallel tracks put it that way, but it's just a little mention - not super important to our endgame here. Also ik the medics in game wear red buuuuut I cannot get the idea out of my head of Porco wearing the green paramedic uniform that we have in the UK so...that's what I chose (also it's the same colour as his canonverse jacket and you can't deny, our boi looks good in green). I have to give a huge thank you to my besties and beta's @dabilove27 and @gixxie, you are both incredible for reading through this monster for me. I adore you and wouldn't be me without you 💙💙 and with that, go forth, and (hopefully) enjoy yourselves.

🎶

“What do we have here?” A mocking voice rings out beside you. The sound is too loud in the now silent forest, nature deathly quiet after the encounter with the BTs, as if the very wind itself is scared to show its face.

You turn your head towards the source of the noise, broken hood crunching underneath you and hindering your movement. Your vision is blurry, only roughly making out the figure standing over you; messy caramel hair, porter suit, wide smile. You groan and raise a shaky hand to your face, fingers grazing over the bloody slash across your temple and your breath hitching at the sharpness that shoots through you at the touch. Your senses dull as pain takes over, your body highlighting all the areas that have been battered, scraped and bruised.

Your saviour holds out a tanned hand and waits for you to grab onto it weakly with your own, “So, whose ass did I just save?” The words reach your ears slowly, as if swimming through treacle to get there, his voice tinny and far off. You search through the fog inside your brain, looking for the answer to his question, as he hauls you to your feet.

You manage to answer at last and speak your name, but the voice doesn’t sound as if it belongs to you. You try to frown as your vision tunnels, black static obscuring your sight as you pitch forwards. The last thing you feel are strong arms holding you upright before consciousness swims away from you into the inky blackness.

You open your eyes to blinding white and immediately throw an arm over your face to shield you from the worst of it, eyelids fluttering rapidly as you adjust to the light and head pounding. You gradually lower your arm as your pupils dilate and scan your surroundings. You are in a pod of sorts, strips of LEDs running around the circumference of the floor and ceiling. Every surface is a stark white, throwing the light around the room.

In front of you, one wall is covered in glass, encasing porter suits of varying colours and designs. The whole display is lit up, and that is where most of the harsh light in the room comes from, spilling across the floor and over your form. To your left is a floor-to-ceiling glass shower stall and to your right a small, rounded table and chairs. You move to sit up and the makeshift bed you are lying on squeaks and crinkles underneath you. It is a hard surface covered in padded plastic, and it does nothing to soothe your aching muscles and tender skin. A thin woollen blanket has been thrown over your legs and your head is resting on a singular soft pillow, probably the most comforting thing in the whole room. But you’ve seen enough to deduce that you are at a Waystation rest stop.

It’s then that you sense the presence beside you, feel the slight temperature change at your side as a body gives off heat, hear the soft breathing of a person asleep. You snap your head to the side and scramble to your knees, the blanket falling around you, as you stare at your bed fellow.

That caramel-blonde head of hair was familiar...this was the man who saved you? Which means he brought you here after you passed out. You shriek in shock and scoot away from him to stand at the edge of the bed; it’s more of a platform, hung from the wall with metal hooks and steel cable. Your noise startles him awake and he sits bolt upright with a gasp, eyes searching for the source. When they land on you, his shoulders relax, and he runs a hand through his bangs; pushing them back away from his forehead. A few strands fall loose around his face again anyway, and he huffs, before offering you a muted smile and a two-fingered salute.

You stare at him for a few moments before you repeat the action, albeit awkwardly and not at all enthusiastically. The silence stretches on a little too long and your eyes dart from him to the bed and back again, he follows your gaze and his eyes widen in understanding.

“Oh, right! You passed out on me back there, so I hauled you and your stuff to the nearest Waystation. Figured you were heading here anyway.” When you only nod in response, he continues, “I delivered your cargo with mine and then brought you here to rest.”

You nod again, too stunned to really come up with words, your head still aching terribly and notice that his hair is damp. It’s the only reason it is staying semi-slicked back to his scalp. You realise he actually has an undercut that you didn’t see before and he looks clean, fresh tank top sculpting his body, and not leaving much to the imagination. His muscled arms are on display and you can see his broad chest and the faint outline of his abs where the fabric is clinging to his skin. He wears a strange cuff-like bracelet on one wrist and for a moment you wonder if they are actually handcuffs, before you dismiss the idea. A quick glance downwards reveals that he’s only wearing a thin pair of sleep shorts.

You glance away just as quickly, face heating up, and fidget on your feet. That’s when it dawns on you that you are no longer wearing your own suit, you are stripped down to your underthings; shirt and panties. Your leggings are gone, your legs bare, and you shiver. Not from the cold, but from the exposure. Your temperature rises to nuclear proportions and you snap your gaze up to his face again.

“Why the fuck am I half naked?” You demand in an accusatory tone, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt at modesty. That finally sparks fear in his eyes, eyes that are a stunning mix of hazel and olive, you note. Your lips downturn at the thought, and that only causes him to look more panicked, his cheeks flushing a dark red.

“Woah, hey! It’s not like that, your suit was ruined, and your leggings were- uhhh,” he looks away from you sheepishly, words tapering off lamely and hanging in the air. He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes flicking to yours and away again. Your face morphs from anger to horror as the realisation dawns on you -- you pissed yourself.

“Oh my god,” you half-shout, “Oh my god!” You cover your face with your hands, pressing your palms into your eyeballs, as if that will make the situation undo itself. The poor guy is babbling at this point, and you would very much like for the floor to swallow you whole.

“So anyway, yeah- and I couldn’t exactly remove your underwear- so I just left them and placed the blanket over you, that’s it. I swear.”

“Please, stop talking!” You fume, your embarrassment palpable and hanging heavy in the air. You fumble for the blanket on the bed and snatch it up, throwing it around your waist in a fruitless effort to gain back some dignity.

“Hey, listen. You were chased by invisible monsters and almost drowned in their spooky plasma shit, that would have made anyone piss themselves.” He attempts a hand at humour, tone light and his earlier panic pushed aside. You are still thoroughly mortified, but you appreciate his effort to not judge you, or completely rip the shit out of you for it. You don’t think to tell him you can actually see BTs, you barely know the guy, why tell him anything about yourself.

Speaking of, you are at a disadvantage, not even knowing the man’s name. You vaguely remember telling him yours before passing out earlier. A vague flicker of embarrassment licks at your skin before you push it down, and choosing to ignore his statement, you ask boldly, “And you are?”

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed as he responds, “Ah yeah, you passed out before I could introduce myself.” He stands in a fluid motion, rocking onto his tippy-toes, and stretching his arms above his head. You watch a little too closely as the hem of his shirt rises a few inches, giving you a flash of toned stomach. He holds the stretch until an audible crack resounds through the room, and then he relaxes with a sigh.

“The name’s Porco,” he offers with a grunt, and you nod your head again, in acknowledgement.

You both stand there in your underwear for a disgustingly awkward pause, before he comments, “It’s pretty cramped in here...only made for one, and to be honest, you’re stinking up the place. Might wanna take a shower.” He walks around the bed and past you, his arm brushing against your own. You sputter and turn your head to glare at him as he squats and starts rummaging through the cupboards lining the wall behind you.

You decide not to fight the insensitive comment too hard seeing as he did you a solid earlier and you are still standing in your pissy underwear (not to mention he is also correct, you reek). So, you settle for an “Ass,” mumbled to yourself while you march to the shower, holding the blanket around you in a bunched fist. You hear him scoff, but swear there is a chuckle hidden beneath it, at the same time you remember that the shower is completely see-through. There’s a small strip of textured glass running around the middle, but it’s not enough privacy for your liking, and your new acquaintance has seen quite enough of you already.

“I’m gonna get in the shower now,” you call hesitantly to him.

“Cool, thanks for the announcement,” comes the reply, followed shortly by a string of curses as several boxes come tumbling out of the cupboard and spill their contents onto the floor.

“I meant,” you enunciate with a bite to your tone, “I’m getting in the shower so yaknow, don’t turn around.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” his head is now deep inside the cabinet, appearing to look for something, and his muffled tone is laced with irritation.

You bite on your lip to stop from laughing when he bangs his head on the edge of a shelf and sits up rubbing the spot with a scowl. In his arm, sitting in the crook of an elbow, are a couple of cans and some plastic packets, although you can’t make out what exactly.

“You sure? Don’t want to remove the rest of my clothes? Or can I do that myself?” You can't help the snark that creeps into your voice as you stand there, still unsure about the shower situation.

“Why, that an offer?” He turns his gaze to you, with a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, and you pull the blanket from around you to whip it at his head. He ducks deftly and catches it mid-air, still smiling as he adds, “Relax. Just a joke. I’ll sit facing away from you the whole time, promise.”

Your eyes narrow at him slightly as you try to gauge how much you should trust this stranger.

“You’ll be able to see me, so you’ll know if I peek. Which I won’t.” He reassures you and pulls out the chair from under the table with a screech, before plopping down into it, facing away from you. As promised.

You sigh and start to undress, watching him closely, as you pull your tank top over your head and step out of your panties. You quickly unbind your chest, whipping the fabric round yourself until it falls to the floor, breasts achingly heavy now they are freed from their confines. You always wrap your chest before you set out on a job, keeps your boobs exactly where you need them, out of the way. You stand in front of the curved glass, checking behind you to make sure he’s staying true to his word, and will the mechanism to hurry up. The sensors eventually detect you and the glass parts to the side with a soft whoosh. You hop in immediately and press the button, stepping under the hot spray and sighing as the warmth smoothes out the knots in your muscles – instant relief. You pump soap into your palms from the dispenser on the wall, and begin gingerly massaging your skin, careful not to press too hard over the bruises littering your body.

You wince as you clean out the cuts and scrapes along your arms and neck, the sting setting your teeth on edge. It’s not until you start lathering the soap into your hair, that you notice Porco has moved. You start, and try to squint through the glass and steam to find him – he’s in another storage cupboard. Whatever he finds, he bundles into his arms. You notice with amusement that he walks backwards and moves in a side-to-side shuffle around the room to avoid catching a glimpse of you in the shower. You decide not to stress over what the heck he’s doing, and instead focus on showering as quickly as possible, rinsing out your hair thoroughly.

When you stand in front of the curved glass again, it parts smoothly just as before, steam rushing out of the cubicle and into the cool air of the room. It mists and curls around your body as you step onto the smooth, cold flooring. You take note of the fact that your soiled clothes are missing and nowhere to be seen and that Porco is back in his seat hunched down and still facing away from you. You can tell his arms are crossed over his chest and can only imagine the look of impatience painting his features.

Your own arms are crossed over your chest as you shiver, a trail of water marking your walk from the shower to the bed. There is a small and fluffy white towel with a pair of basic underclothes perched on top, all folded neatly waiting for you. You waste no time in wrapping yourself in the towel the best you can, and rigorously drying your body.

You let out a content sigh once you pull the fresh long-sleeved shirt over your head, yanking the hem down and straightening it out. Porco managed to find another pair of leggings similar to your previous ones and you quickly pull them on over your fresh cotton underwear. The fabric smells new and feels heavenly against your clean skin.

Your feet stick slightly to the floor as you pad over to the table and pull out the chair across from your new companion. His arms are indeed crossed, his dimpled chin resting on his chest, eyes closed. You can tell he isn’t asleep by his breathing, and the way his eyes twitch underneath his lids as he tracks your movement. You pull at the crease of your shirt and smile thinly, “So, this is why you were scurrying around the place backwards.”

He cracks one hazel eye open and flicks it up and down your frame briefly, “You’re welcome.” The response was short and clipped, but held an amused tone, as if laughing at your obvious reluctance to thank him.

You sniff, narrowing your eyes at him, and instead turn your attention to the items scattered across the tabletop; four tall cans of energy drink and an assortment of protein bars and crackers. You can’t help the smile that fights to spread across your face at the exact moment your stomach decides to rumble, “We’ve got a feast.”

You chance a glance at Porco, who has straightened at your tone, and reach across the table eagerly for a protein bar. He hums, “Bit bland but beats munchin’ on Cryptobiotes,'' you grimace at the word, stuffing your mouth with the snack unceremoniously. Cryptobiotes are small life forms found out in the wild that are rife with protein and nutrients; they supposedly replenish red blood cells at a faster rate and are a steady component of your diet when you are above ground and have run out of food rations, but you can’t say much for the taste.

Porco snatches his own bar, flipping the packet up and back into his hand, before grabbing a can of energy drink and popping it open with a thumb. You unwrap the crackers, packet rustling loudly as you rip it almost down the middle and grab a handful. Porco sputters into his first sip of drink and is quick to comment on your messy eating habits. You only give him the finger before shovelling several into your mouth at once, chewing loudly.

Finally, you can eat, and it tastes better than it should. You finish eating in relative silence, Porco only breaking it to throw a jab your way, huffing dramatically as he cleans up the crumbs and wrappers. You grab the last few and follow him to the small pedal bin by the bed which he holds open for you with a foot so you can drop your mess in.

But apparently that isn't the only cleaning up he had in store because you soon find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed while Porco sits on the stool seat in front of you, first aid kit spilling its contents onto the bedspread as he rifles through it with one hand. He washed his hands a moment ago and donned the powder blue gloves he found in the cabinet when he was looking for the first aid kit. He leans slightly towards you as he tries to find what he’s looking for, and you tense at the sudden closeness. You feel his breath puff across your skin as he grumbles and groans to himself, his almost-dry hair starting to fall around his face again, framing those rounded cheekbones and sharp jawline. You flick your eyes down to notice that his button nose has a slight upturn to it, cute.

You quickly shake the thought away and clear your throat before speaking, “You know I really can do this myself, there’s a mirror over there.” You glance at it with longing, hoping the man before you will retreat and leave you to your space.

“Not willing to let the dashingly handsome stranger clean your wounds?” He jests as he upends the first aid bag completely and continues rummaging.

“Yeah, well the last stranger I ran into didn’t treat me so kindly.” You reply dryly, gripping your fingers tightly in your lap. You catch the concerned look he throws your way, but ultimately, he decides to gloss over it.

“Damn, do you ever relax? You act like I took you hostage.”

“Didn’t you?” You counter with a glare.

He ignores you, “I get it, there are some really shitty people out there. But lemme ask you this -- have I treated you unkindly?” He stops his searching to look up at you earnestly, neat eyebrows arching ever so slightly, as his eyes meet yours. This close you can see every swirl of colour in his eyes, the golds and browns flecked with varying shades of green.

You shift under his gaze, eyes flicking away from his own and back again, trying your hardest not to flush under his honest scrutiny. “Well, you could take some lessons in tact,” you mutter pointedly, pulling a snort from him, “but...no.” You finish begrudgingly.

He laughs, “Hey, I don’t sugar-coat it.”

“Now that, we can both agree on.” Your lips twitch upwards and when you look at him this time you force yourself to keep your eyes on his. He looks back at you, smile faltering slightly as he takes you in. His gaze dips lower, lingering on your mouth, and he swallow. You find yourself mirroring the action, throat suddenly dry. You realise that he is a lot closer than you initially thought, and although you hold your breath unconsciously, you aren't quite as tense. A little more confident that he isn't likely to lunge and attack.

He blinks, and suddenly he’s leaning back and away from you, as he begins to appraise the slash on your forehead as if nothing happened.

“Anyway-” you clear your throat, the sound too loud in the quiet room, a thread of tension shimmering in the atmosphere, “-just because you haven’t treated me unkindly yet, doesn’t mean you won’t.”

Porco lines up the items he needs: a bottle of saline solution, gauze swabs and some wound cleansing wipes as you speak. He tears open an individual sachet and pulls out the small, damp cloth before holding it up in front of your face, “You’re right-“ he grins, “-guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

You frown at him. You can’t work him out and that makes you apprehensive, but you have questions and you need them answered.

“I can’t trust you because I don’t know you,” you respond, “why did you save me?” The question comes out in a rush, and you clamp your lips together in embarrassment.

He looks at you, bewildered, “Do you make a habit of leaving fellow humans to get eaten? Remind me not to rely on you if I’m ever in a pickle.” You give him a wicked look, and he rolls his eyes and carries on, “plus I’d die from the resulting Voidout. So yeah, I saved you.” Right. Stupid question.

“That better?” he asks, and you furrow your brows in confusion.

“I need to have a self-serving reason for saving you? That makes you believe me more?” You lock up, his words hitting a little too close to your chest, and you look off to the side, determined not to let him get under your skin. But God, is he really sinking those hooks in.

He scoffs and holds up the gloved hand that is still clutching the wipe, “You gonna let me clean that wound before it festers?” He uses a softer tone this time and you eye him warily before nodding once, back ramrod straight as he leans in to dab at the crusted blood around the knife wound. “You rinsed most of the blood off in the shower, but there’s some stubborn spots here and there, so I’m just gonna clean it up, ok?” You breathe out a quiet “okay” and try not to squirm, letting him clean the area so he can see the extent of the damage. He’s surprisingly gentle with you and you find yourself relaxing a little as he focuses on the task. You stay silent for a while, enjoying the quiet, even if it is a little awkward as you think of the next question you want to ask him.

There’s so much you want to know, curious nature always getting the better of you, but it’s weird to probe into a stranger’s affairs. Instead, you settle on asking what concerns you, the obvious question.

“How did you get rid of the BTs?” Porco takes a beat to finish his task of wiping your forehead before he throws the bloodied wipes into the bin at his feet and finally looks at you.

“A blood grenade, would you believe it? Some hotshot Porter that works for Bridges supposedly has special blood that can kill them, he’s a Repatriate.” You perk up at the name, eyes widening and following Porco’s movements as his deft fingers undo the cap on the bottle of solution. He takes a gauze pad out of the box and places it over the opening of the bottle before upending it. You can’t believe he’s so casual about this. Repatriates are rare, you’ve never met one or known anyone who has (coming back from the dead is hardly an ability many possess), and if his blood can kill BTs? This is huge.

“A Repatriate?” You echo eagerly, sitting up a little straighter and shuffling forward on the mattress. Porco flicks his olive eyes to yours in amusement before humming in confirmation. He holds the soaked gauze out and raises his eyebrows at you, a silent request. You nod quickly before getting back to the topic at hand, “And?”

“And what?” He asks as he delicately begins to dab at the slice above your brows. You roll your eyes at him impatiently; he really enjoys pushing your buttons it seems. You are hardly in the mood for it, but you want to get answers from him so playing nice is your best bet.

“Tell me about the Repatriate,” you comment carefully, masking some of your earlier excitement. He tries to hide a smile but fails and you wince as he prods your sore flesh a little too hard.

“Shit, sorry!” he curses, and discards the pad for a fresh one. He sighs as he busies himself with the saline again, “we weren’t told much really, so I’m assuming that means the higher ups know fuck all about why he’s so special. They rounded up a bunch of us higher-ranking Porters, handed us a couple grenades each and told us to go crazy, see if they worked effectively on BTs.”

You look him in the face as he dabs the last of the liquid onto your sliced skin, the sting bringing tears to your lower lash line and sending a wicked throbbing through your skull. Everything is starting to catch up with you, exhaustion settling in your bones and aches returning to your limbs. You set your teeth as you breathe through the pain and blink away the tears, a few escaping from your lashes and falling down your cheeks. Porco absentmindedly reaches out to wipe them away with a thumb, and after the initial shock, you realise you oddly appreciate the gesture. It doesn't stop you from flinching at the contact. He pats the wounded area dry with a clean pad before pushing away from the bed and standing up.

He crosses the short space to the wall by the shower, and the sink unit automatically pops out to greet him, the mirror lighting up his profile. It’s as he is peeling off the gloves and washing his hands that you realise something.

“So, you didn’t know if those grenades would work?” you ask, voice a little too high-pitched.

He chuckles and shoots you a look across the room, hair falling over his eyes, and you watch incredulously as he runs a hand through it once more, pushing it back and away from his face as he says, “Lucky for us both, they did.”

You contemplate arguing his nonchalant behaviour, but you are too spent, and suspect that your berating wouldn’t change much anyways. They worked, and you both lived to survive another day, so that is that.

“And that’s what you were doing when you found me, hunting BTs?” You gingerly roll your neck from side to side, pushing through the nausea that surfaces from the persistent and near agonising ache in your skull.

“Amongst other things, don’t get up-,” he warns as you move to slide off the bed, “-gotta wrap ya up.”

You freeze mid-action and shuffle backwards again. He appears at your side once more and reaches for a roll of bandages. He quickly presses a pad to your now clean cut and asks you a question in turn.

“So, what’s your story? Pretty nasty injuries you’ve got, wicked bump on the back of your head.” You don’t even bother to avoid the question and redirect the conversation, you just don’t answer, and he frowns.

He unrolls the bandages and mumbles a short, “Can I?”, waiting for your answering nod before he begins to dress your wound, winding the material around your head. He secures it at the back and you feel all at once a little better. The material isn’t too tight but holds firm, it feels like it’s holding you together, keeping your head from fracturing in two.

“The stranger,” he starts, and you must look confused because he continues, “the stranger who didn’t treat you too kindly. Was this courtesy of them?” His words are quiet, unobtrusive, a tone tinged with mild curiosity. You feel at the back of your head with soft fingers, skimming over the lump there and clamping down on a whimper at the pain.

“Yeah.” You don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask you to. You are starting to lose focus, thoughts fragmenting and wandering, limbs heavy. He must notice your eyelids drooping because he places a hand on your shoulder, grip warm and firm, “Come on, you need to rest, you’re lucky you don’t have a concussion.”

You yawn wide as you lean your weight onto your arms and lift your feet onto the platform, shuffling back towards the wall. You lay down gently and settle on your side to avoid any sore spots, curling into a foetal position. Porco grabs the blanket that’s off to the side and flicks it out and over you. As you pull the material up to your chin, seeking warmth, Porco settles beside you with his back to the wall. He rests his elbows against his knees, the muscles of his arms rippling as he does so, and his broad shoulders hunch forwards to curl around his frame.

He’s still in sleep shorts and a tank, and vaguely, your syrupy thoughts wonder if he’s cold. He taps a cuff attached to his wrist and a holographic screen is thrown upwards, showing some sort of map. You realise it isn’t a bracelet at all, and remind yourself to ask him about it later. You make a conscious effort to keep your eyes open and mutter out two words around a fresh yawn.

“Huh?” He questions, head turning to look at your face peeking over the top of the blanket.

“Thank you,” you say, louder this time. He cocks his head to the side a little, thick neck on display, his eyebrows raised in alarm.

“For what?” His smile is all too teasing, and you wish you had the energy to roll your eyes at him.

“For everything, just. Thank you.” Your voice sounds thick, exhaustion evident, and your blinks become slower, last longer. He smiles then, a genuine smile that lights up his face, so different from the teasing grin or the near-permanent frown that you have been given up till now. His cheeks bunch adorably, apples even rounder with the movement, and you note that he has dimples. His teeth flash at you, neat and white, plump lips stretched around them. His smile curves up higher on one side, barely, but you catch it. You dislike the thought crossing your mind that he is handsome, it swims around your brain and you think you smile back at him, his easygoing nature a little infectious.

“It’s nothin', now sleep.” You are all too happy to oblige, but not before you pull the blanket over to his side a little and offer up a corner, your way of making nice. You can hardly leave him cold all night after everything he’s done for you. He takes the material offered to him and slides a little closer to your form, laying his legs flat and wrapping the blanket around his waist. You let the rest drop between you and snuggle into your half. Sleep claims you quickly.

The next few days pass in a haze of boredom, each day bleeding into the next as you heal from your encounter with the MULEs. Porco makes you rest more than you would like, and you find yourself leaning into his easy personality and letting your guard slip.

At first, it was merely something to do, to wile away the hours cooped up in this tiny room; but after the first 24 hours, you find yourself looking forward to his witty remarks and teasing nature, finding particular enjoyment in the little crease between his brows when he sports a frown. You especially like being the cause of said frown when you bite back at his blunt delivery or whine extra loud about his choice to keep you inside for longer than necessary – to “make sure you recuperate fully”.

“What would have been the point in saving you, if I let you wander off half delirious and fainting all over the place?”

You object to that phrasing because you only fainted once since the attack and you aren’t as weak and hopeless as he makes out. You have, and probably will, survive worse. He makes it seem like you are a burden, a gigantic pain in his ass, and you almost wish it was true (and not more of his teasing) so that you can just get out of here. But another part of you, a much bigger part than you want to admit- and what mostly makes you stay seeing as you could leave if you really wanted to- needs this house arrest to last just a little longer, despite the obvious cabin fever.

You hate being below ground, it is the main reason you took up the occupation of Porter, so that you could spend your dwindling days out in the fresh air. You feel most centred, most yourself, out in nature and the inherent risks are worth it in your opinion. Worth it to feel the sun on your skin, the wind in your hair, to remind yourself there is a world out there waiting to be explored, ripe for the taking.

Sometimes, it is the only thing that gets you up in the morning and you can’t understand the individuals who are content with being stuck in the underground cities. To you, it is a prison sentence. That being said, you are lonely. The profession you chose and the path you took in this life isolates you from humanity, which in the past was just fine by you, preferred even. But you quickly realised that loneliness consumed one from the inside out and having someone to talk to meant more than you ever thought it would. It keeps one sane.

Especially someone who understands the difficulties of what you do every day. And that is how you also found yourself realising that you enjoy Porco’s company, are grateful for it even. His reminders to eat and exercise keep you grounded and the menial tasks he throws your way (despite your resentment at the order) gives you something to focus your mind on and do, besides sleeping.

What was initially reluctance at his commands turns into a begrudging gratefulness as you sort through the supplies in the room and pick out anything useful for travel. You make two piles, one for yourself and a near identical one for your current roommate. The supplies include food rations, water, clothing, mini first-aid kits and back-up items such as spare lights and rope. You also found some boots in the display cabinet housing the new and shiny Bridge’s suits, one of which you already have your eye on. It is of similar design to your old one but far fancier, state of the art technology and materials used with a myriad of adjustments that will make travel more comfortable than you are used to.

Porco told you, the day after you met him, that he has a contract with Bridges, he works for them not just with them as a freelance Porter. That’s what the clunky cuff on his wrist is, a way to connect each one of the Bridges staff, a communication link as well as a handy tool. He patiently showed you how it functions and let you play around with it and ask questions. You were surprised to find that he could be serious when he wanted to be and was a pretty good teacher. Not that it lasted for very long before he was back to his usual insults and cocky smirk.

You have come up with a nickname of sorts for Porco in the time you’ve spent with him. It was your third day at the Waystation when you had voiced the idea.

“You need a nickname,” you had spoken the thought aloud, and it hung heavy in the quiet of the room, as you sat cross legged on the floor sorting through more clothes.

“No, I don’t,” had come the near instantaneous reply.

“Yes, you do,” you retaliated immediately, indifferent to his rebuttal.

“And why’s that?” you heard a sigh in his voice that he tried to mask under feigned interest, but you picked up on it, nonetheless. You have learnt the tells that indicate his annoyance and what is merely teasing pretty quickly since you have nothing better to do than sit around and analyse the man.

You know that being stuck with you in this room for three days straight has not been easy for him -- you whine and moan and blame the situation on him and you are reluctant to offer any information about yourself while demanding answers from him. In your defence, he has left the four walls of this room, and you have not. You are bound to be a little stir crazy and cranky, entitled to it really.

“So, I don’t laugh every time I use your real name,” you smiled to yourself from your position across the room. He had been leaning against the opposite wall marking a route on his map using the cuff. He spent most days when he wasn’t out on deliveries (only local since he had to “keep an eye on you”) mapping a route to what you assumed was his next destination. Although you weren’t sure what delivery route could require such time and attention.

His seething silence and the muscle you just knew was jumping in his jaw, was evidence enough that he had not been in the mood that day, and so you had relented with a cheery tone.

“I’ll keep you posted.”

He ended that conversation with a grunt.

It isn’t until today that you speak up about it as he saunters over to you.

“Pock!” you exclaim, neatly folding undergarments into a small bag.

“Umm, sorry?” He stops just in front of your seated form at the table, and you look up at his arched brows and cocked head.

“You’re real cute when you’re clueless,” you coo at him, and he meets it with a scowl, but you notice a pink hue to his complexion. “Have you forgotten already? It’s your nickname,” you smile big as you focus on your folding again, expecting him to argue the point. To your surprise he laughs.

“I was expecting a lot worse,” he plops down into the seat across from you, “I can work with Pock.”

“Well good, better start getting used to it,” you finish your folding and lay your head on your arms atop the table. You hear the squeak of steel against plastic as he leans back in his chair.

“You’re doing well,” he comments. You crack open an eye to peek at him over the top of your arm.

“It’s just folding laundry; you could do it too yaknow.” You watch as he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek to stop a grin from splitting across his face.

“Funny. I meant your injuries,” he crosses his arms over his front, forearms flexing in a delicious distraction, drawing your attention from his mouth to his chest, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

His eyes follow your gaze and there is a flicker of amusement and...pride? in them when they return to your face. You groan and close your eyes, burying your face into the crook of your elbow.

“You don’t seem to have any lasting effects from the head injury and your cuts and scrapes are healing nicely.”

“Nice observation skills, detective, I could have told you that” you mumble into your skin, deflecting your earlier embarrassment of being caught staring into humour, your tone dry.

He ignores the remark and continues, “I think tomorrow’s as good a day as any.”

You perk up at that. “For what?” you ask eagerly, lifting your head to meet his hazel eyes.

“To leave, can’t stay here forever, I know it must be tempting for you when you’ve got all this to look at,” he gestures at himself with a smug smile, “but I’ve got places to be.”

He is in casual wear again today; wearing loose fit joggers (that have become his usual since he found them in the clothes bin) slung low on his hips, the waistband snug against his pelvic bones and the light grey fabric hugging the curve of his thigh muscles. Paired with those too-small white tanks he favours little is left to the imagination, although your brain tries anyway, filling your head with unwanted images of him sprawled out beneath you.

Being cooped up is turning you into a pervert; it is an effort to look away when he showers, to look anywhere but the glistening drops of water that roll off his abs whenever he steps out of the cubicle, fluffy towel wrapped loosely about his waist and accentuating that delicious V that disappears beneath the material. You swear he does it on purpose, just to see the struggle as you attempt to keep your eyes locked on his and do your best to keep a clear head, spitting out some half-hearted lie about how he doesn’t look as good as he thinks he does.

“Oh, so you have been looking, then?” He always catches you out, always. It’s what fuels your snarky attitude and ill attempts at insults, purely because you know that he is having more of an effect on you than you want. You figure it’s probably the Stockholm Syndrome talking (a fact you teasingly remind him of every time he suggests that you are warming up to him), although that body doesn’t hurt either, and chalk it up to basic human desire at being stuck in such close quarters.

You break out of your reverie when he waves a hand in front of your face, “Hellooooo! It’s only been three days; you can’t have lost your mind already.”

“Tomorrow?” you repeat slowly, dawning excitement bubbling in your chest. Outside. You will be outside in less than 24 hours.

“Yeah, you almost done with those bags?” he nods to the small packs you’ve been preparing.

“Just gotta pack away the rest of the spare clothes,” you answer.

“Good,” he comments, “So we should talk about what’s next,” his tone is firm and his stance immediately changes. His arms tighten across his chest as his spine straightens, casual demeanour immediately morphing into that serious ‘this means business’ face, that you have to admit he wears well.

“Who’s this we you keep throwing around?” You challenge.

“Alright, I won’t beat around the bush- “

“Do you ever?” You mutter, interrupting him mid-sentence. He gives you a look and you back down with your hands raised in mock defeat, “-given your circumstances, I think you should come with me. We can travel together.”

You stare at him for a few seconds to ascertain whether he is joking or not, but his face is more serious than it has ever been, and you think back to an earlier conversation you had a day or so ago.

He had been cleaning your wounds and checking the lump on the back of your head when you had finally spoken up about what had happened on that fateful day on the mountain with the ambusher…with Zeke.

His face had transformed at that name drop, from deep concern to something resembling fear, it was the first time you had seen it on him and it sparked something animal in you, a fight or flight instinct that made your skin crawl and heart rate quicken.

He had shakily dropped the roll of gauze in his hand and sat back with a deep exhale. It felt like the silence between you had stretched on for an eternity, the atmosphere roiling with tension, before he had spoken two words. Two words you hadn’t wanted to hear.

“We’re fucked.”

Needless to say, it did little to ease your nerves. After a drink and some mild coaxing on your part, Pock had revealed what he knew about the man and his motley crew. It turns out that Zeke is a psychopath, not really a surprise, but something you had hoped was a stretch on your part after your short encounter.

He told you that he knew of the Yeager’s, many people around these parts did, apparently they were not only thugs but kidnappers, taking women they came across that caught Zeke’s fancy.

“He’s bad news, and I mean the worst kind, he’s obsessive and has made it his hobby to collect people…women,” you shuddered at the revelation and thanked the universe that you had gotten away that day, but Porco made it clear that you weren’t out of hot water just yet.

“Don’t look so relieved,” he spoke sharply enough that your heart had dropped, “he will stop at nothing to get what he wants…I’ve seen it first-hand,“ he lapsed into a grim silence after that. Your stomach rolled, chest heaving at the thought of what befell those women, of who Porco had lost to that disgusting monster.

“What happened to her?” you uttered the question quietly, not wanting to pry or upset him, but needing to know the answer.

“Nothing good,” he grunted, and the air left your lungs in a painful whoosh, as if he punched it right out of you. When he spoke again, you startled so badly that you knocked the first aid kit off the bed, contents spilling across the floor.

“My brother went after her, but-“ the sentence had been cut short by a pained crack in his throat, eyes swimming with a haunted look.

You grabbed his hand that day, and he had grabbed yours back. You hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even looked at each other, only gripped the others hand like a lifeline; his warm palm pressed against your own, rough fingertips squeezing yours, his touch indented into your flesh long after he let go. A memory that lingered on your skin.

It was the first time you touched him since you took his hand the day he found you, the first time you had willingly gotten closer to him without hesitation. You hadn’t been able to help it when you saw the look in his eyes; the grief, the loss...the despair. You knew it all too well, it was mirrored in your own gaze, something impossible to hide from those who felt it too, despite how desperately one tried. Neither of you had brought up the topic again, until now.

And as you look into those eyes of green and gold now, turbulent with unspoken emotion, you think that you maybe understand his motivation for the question he asked. And you realise that you were strangers, but not anymore, he knows you even if only a little. And what if, maybe he too, is fed up with being alone. Maybe he has grown to appreciate your company as much as you have his.

But it isn’t just that, things have changed after your conversation about Zeke. Pock had known someone who had been in your position, who he couldn’t help, who wasn’t saved before it was too late. And maybe him finding you in the wilderness was an odd twist of fate, a chance for him to right the wrongs of his past, to deal with it head on and heal from it.

And who are you to stand in the way of fate, to reject help when it is so willingly offered in a time of crisis, in a time of loneliness? But all of that reaching is a smokescreen for your true desires on the matter, for the thought you had as soon as the words fell from his lips -- you want to go with him.

But that’s not what you say.

“Wait, what? You want to travel together? Travel where? Everywhere is a wasteland plagued by dead souls, not exactly prime sightseeing locations.” You frown at him, your voice laced with sarcasm. Is he pulling your leg? What does he even mean? You come from different compounds, have established lives completely separate from one another, and porters aren't known for travelling in groups. It's a lonesome job that rarely requires more than one pair of hands.

“Listen, I’ve got a plan. Sort of,” his face scrunches in contemplation, “I’m leaving here, leaving this island. I’m heading to Lake Knot and from there I’ll catch a boat to greener pastures, and then I’m gone.” Greener pastures, you process the two words in disgust, not quite believing or understanding what he’s saying. This is an insane journey he's proposing, and certainly not one you spring on a person you've known for all of four days.

“Are you crazy? There are no greener pastures,” your voice rises in pitch as you lean forward in your seat and stare at him incredulously across the table, “and you want me to leave my home, the only place I’ve ever known, and go on some wild goose chase with a stranger across the sea…for a pipe dream?”

Porco frowns at you, any playfulness still in his posture gone now. “We’re hardly strangers,” he says as he shoots you a grim look, “and why not? What’s tying you to this place? Do you even have anyone to stick around for?” He means well, you know he doesn’t mean to hurt you with those words, but he does anyway.

You don’t have anyone to stick around for, but he doesn’t know that, and it isn’t the point. You know he understands that emptiness all too well, the loneliness, that he is only offering you a way out.

But you can’t stop the anger that bubbles up inside you at his insensitive words and blunt delivery, at the spike of pain and flash of memories that threaten to overtake you. You never had been good at controlling your anger, “You don’t fucking know anything about me, so don’t you dare pretend that you do,” you seethe, spitting out the words like venom.

“Yeah?” His eyes flash, and now you know he’s pissed, “Well, whose fault is that?” He jerks his head at you, and you bristle, but he continues before you can interrupt, “It’s dangerous out there, you know that as well as I do. If we stick together, we can have each other’s backs, sounds a hell of a lot better to me than going it alone.” He drops his forearms onto the table with a thump and goes to push away from the table, effectively ending your little spat, but you are determined to have the last word.

“So, that’s what this is about,” You comment, and it stops him in his tracks, his eyes darting to your face, “You think I need protecting? I’m not her, Pock, and you aren’t your brother. This isn't something you need to do, for me or yourself. I’ve survived just fine on my own my whole life and you know what? I’ll continue to survive on my own. I don’t need you to swoop in and save the damsel in distress!” Your words are a shout now, emotion bleeding from each ragged breath you take, heart slamming against your chest. You hate confrontation, it makes you sick. Yet here you are starting it, acidic words rising in your throat like bile and spilling from your mouth, a mouth twisted with cruelty.

You hate the bitter words in your mouth, the metallic tang they leave on your taste buds. You went too far, and you can’t take those words back, can’t take back the look on Porco’s face, back stiff and teeth clenching together so hard you half-expect them to crack. Those eyes that have only ever been kind aren’t shining anymore, the sparkle gone from them, only white-hot rage remains. He stands up abruptly, knocking his chair over, the clatter resounding through the room and making you jump.

“S’not what it looked like when I found you screaming and pissing yourself a few days ago.” His voice is low, so unlike your loud and explosive anger. It’s a quiet rage that simmers beneath the surface; his body taut, every muscle straining against his skin, as if he is using all his strength to rein it in.

“If I remember correctly, I saved you. Why are you so fucking determined to push people away, so scared of connecting with someone? You ever think that you’re on your own because you made it that way?” His words are justified, you deserve them, hell they’re the truth. But they sting anyway, pricking at your eyes, and you stare resolutely ahead to keep the tears at bay. You are shaking, with frustration or guilt, you don’t know. Maybe both.

You look down at the table and mumble, “And this is why I work alone.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, all traces of anger swept away with the slump of your shoulders, your admittance of defeat.

You hear Porco shift on his feet, a step toward you, and then he halts. You can almost see the words in the forefront of his mind, tripping over his tongue trying to rearrange themselves, to come out right. But they never come, as if he realises there is no right thing to say.

You hear the scrape of his chair as he rights it and his footsteps as he turns to walk away, but he stops one last time, and speaks so quietly you almost don't catch it all. "You're wrong. Maybe I don't need to do this for you, but I do need to for myself."

You suck in a stuttered breath, air catching in your throat, and chest aching. Fuck, why did you have to open your big mouth and ruin everything. He throws one last line over his shoulder before he leaves the room, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Dismissive. Final.

You sigh, a shaky exhale of built-up emotion, and the first few tears of many finally fall and spatter against the plastic beneath you. You look up, to make sure you see him leave, a small punishment for yourself. You hate staring at his back as he walks away from you, knowing that you crossed a line and hurt him, in doing so.

You know he will leave you alone as best he can for the rest of the day so that you can stew in your own juices, maybe see some reason. You also know that come tomorrow, should you reject him again, he will let you leave. Even if the guilt of doing so tears him up inside. You hate that the look of absolute devastation that flashed across his face when you mentioned his brother, still lingers in your mind when you shut your eyes. But most of all, you hate you, and your inability to be honest with yourself and with him.

He still isn’t back after an hour; you’ve spent the time alternating between sitting at the table chewing on your nails and pacing back and forth in front of the glass display wall. You are tired from all the crying you let out as soon as he left the compound, and your toe hurts where you kicked it against the chair in another fit of rage shortly after that. You crawl onto the bed and curl up on your side, burying your face in Pock's pillow and inhaling the scent of soap and him. You've exhausted thoughts of what happened and how you could have handled it differently, spent far too long picking apart each word between you and him, obsessing over every little detail and what he could be up to right now. You squeeze your tired and puffy eyes shut, letting the negative thoughts spiral out into the darkness behind your closed lids, becoming less coherent and fuzzy at the edges. Your breathing deepens as your consciousness slowly slips away from you, the last thing your mind summons up is a face twisted with hurt, and a pair of sad, hazel eyes.

Your dreams are disjointed flashes of memories, some far too old for you to possibly remember, perhaps just nightmares conjured up to haunt you. Others depict apocalyptic events spelling the downfall of humanity, nothing concrete, just blood and death and ash. You see the faces of people, some you know and others you don't, but each one slowly fades out into a haze of red – their lives wiped off the board one by one.

Leaving only a few remaining…and this is the only time you've seen something that wasn't in the past, that hasn't already happened, a chilling omen that cuts you bone deep. It's Pock; he's standing in front of you bruised and battered, tears shining in his eyes. He's attempting to mouth something to you, something you can't make out. Your hands stretch out into empty space, reaching for him…but they never connect.

You scream and cry out, but there's no sound here, everything is fuzzy and quickly fading into red. Not again. It's your fault, all your fault. Another life on your shoulders, more blood on your hands. You can't leave him alone to die, you won't, but no matter how much you struggle the image disintegrates into the background. The last thing you see is a wave of heat and light rushing towards him before the image shatters.

There's someone else here.

And suddenly you are struggling against a firm grip, harsh fingers digging into your flesh cruelly, and when you manage to turn… you are met with a blank face with soulless pits for eyes. The only discernible feature is a pair of silver-rimmed glasses perched atop a long nose. Checkmate.

Porco paces back and forth outside the Waypoint obsessively, pulling at his hair and debating whether he should go back in there and apologise, talk it out with you. But he decides you both need some time to cool off and so he takes a short trip into the valley beyond the forest you currently reside in. He searches around the rocks, checking every nook and cranny, before he finds some lost cargo in a shallow river. Fortunately, it is labelled for delivery to the Waypoint you are currently stationed at. So he straps the cargo to his gear, going through the motions methodically and with a practiced ease, before he lugs it all back to base for delivery.

The exercise took his mind off your fight, kept the bitter words and guilt at bay long enough for his head to clear. When he returns to your shared capsule, you are asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed with your face in his pillow. It sends a pang through his chest seeing the closest object to you with his smell and imprint on wrapped in your arms. He likes the idea that even in his absence he somehow brought you comfort.

He watches the rise and fall of your form for several minutes before shucking off his suit and then sliding onto the cot next to you, sacrificing his section of the blanket so he can wrap it around you carefully. You lay atop most of it but there is enough to keep you covered. He doesn't mind, he's hot after his trek back anyway.

He didn't realise he'd fallen asleep until your screams woke him with a start. Porco isn't usually too alarmed with your night terrors, it's something everyone with DOOMs has to suffer through and also something he's become accustomed to while sharing a bed with you, but tonight is different…

Your screams are piercing, your sobs shredding through his sleep-riddled brain as you chant his name over and over, practically begging. A sick feeling worms its way into his gut as panic takes hold, you are twisting yourself up in the sheets and thrashing around wildly, arms striking him in the process.

He grabs your hands as they swing for him, restricting your movement so that you don't hurt yourself, and then calls your name over your yelling. A few more yells and a hand at your face and you jerk awake, eyes flying open in panic. You strain against his hold, leaning away from him and panting with fright, clearly terrified by whatever you saw. It takes you a few seconds to realise that he is the one beside you, that you are now awake, and not trapped in an endless nightmare.

Your thrashing has slowed, wide eyes crinkling as you take in his appearance, your fingers clutching at his biceps frantically.

"I- I thought…I saw-" You take a shuddering breath, and then the dam breaks, tears flowing down your cheeks as you gasp out your sobs. Porco pulls you into his chest without a thought, your sweat-damp hair sticking to his bare skin. He startles when you wrap your arms around his neck without hesitation, tucking your face into his neck to muffle your cries. Now, that's unexpected. Usually you apologise for waking him, grab a drink, and then roll over again. Maybe it's because this one was particularly nasty, maybe it's because of your fight earlier...

He holds you gently, hand rubbing up and down your back as he recites calmly and firmly into your ear, "You're okay, hey, you're safe. Just need you to breathe for me, okay?"

You nod your head, sniffling into his skin as you take deep stuttering breaths in, and then out. He focuses on that since it seems to be working and breathes with you, coaching you through it until your tears have stopped and you are breathing evenly. You stay wrapped in eachothers arms in the quiet, only the eerie glow of the display wall lighting the room. He's afraid that if he moves you'll pull away and shut down, so he keeps still, and continues brushing his fingertips over the bare skin of your shoulders.

You've taken to wearing just a bandage around your chest at night, you run hot and can't sleep in the heat. Great solution for you, a huge pain in the ass for him. He tries his best to be a decent human being around you but fuck, do you make it difficult, swanning around in minimal clothing with that little smirk playing on your lips as you insult him. And the way you look at him sometimes…if he didn't know better, he'd say that you felt the same urges he does.

You stay quiet while his mind wanders, clearly contemplating how to break the silence, what to tell him and what not to tell him. He lets you think it out until eventually you clear your throat awkwardly.

"My answer is yes." Your voice is hoarse and dry from all the screaming, and sounds oddly loud in the silence.

"What's that now?" He tucks his chin to look down at you with surprise and a little amusement. You always keep him on his toes, that's for sure.

You look up at him with an exasperated sigh, puffy, red eyes narrowed at him.

"You heard me. I said yes, I'll come with you." You look away quickly after speaking, probably realising how close you are to one another, it hasn't escaped his attention either. But now is definitely not the time to address it.

"One little nightmare changed your mind? Realised you can't live without me?" You sit up at his words, slowly extricating from his embrace, and wiping an arm over your dewy forehead.

Your answering wince makes him feel guilty for teasing, you seemed pretty distraught only moments ago. But then you cock an eyebrow at him wryly and he knows you appreciate the olive branch of normalcy he extended.

"Never," you chirp airily, "but, and I say this begrudgingly, you are right. I could do with someone watching my back." He smiles lazily at you, it's a rare day you compliment him, let alone admit he's right about anything.

"Don't go getting a big head," you warn him, stretching your arms above your head with a face-splitting yawn, "ahhhhh…besides, I'd feel guilty if you died out there with no one to protect you."

He snorts and gives you a look, one that suggests the idea of you protecting him is absurd considering how you met, but you both know he doesn't mean it. Not really. You've survived this far on your own out there, and if your lean build and the swell of muscles beneath your soft skin are anything to go by, you can take care of yourself.

You scowl at him, and shove him away from you roughly, face glowing with delight when he nearly falls off the bed with the action.

"Are you ever gonna let that go?" You demand, folding your hands in front of your bandaged chest with that unrelenting, headstrong attitude of yours. Porco finds it amusing that you can now tell exactly what he's thinking depending on his behaviour, the forced proximity has wrought a sense of familiarity in you both.

"Probably not." His cocky response does nothing to assuage your fire, and he holds up his hands to ward off any further attacks, watching you amusedly as you give him a withering look.

"Don't make me change my mind already."

"I'll be quiet as a mouse." He acts out the motion of zipping his lips shut and you roll your eyes before sliding off the bed and checking the digital clock on the table you use for dining. Perhaps dining is too generous a word for the meals you eat.

"No point in going back to bed, we'll have to be leaving in a few hours anyways," you force the words out around another yawn, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual, and head for the shower.

He can't blame you for your urgency, you are probably itching to set foot outside. He wouldn't have survived these past few days without his little trips above ground each day. He gives you credit for not losing your marbles entirely.

"With how long you take in the shower? Reckon I can get a couple winks in."

He laughs, as you raise a hand above your head and give him the finger, not even bothering to turn around to pin him with a glare. He collapses onto the bed with a huff as you begin to undress, the steel cables creaking with the weight, and closes his eyes. Any excuse to prove himself correct and hear you say those three, magic words again.

☾☆ ☽ ☆ ☾

You had set off early to mid-morning after you had showered and suited up, the day grey with cloud cover. You would have thought it the height of summer and not post-apocalypse with the way you frolicked and beamed in the brisk air. You were just happy to be alive, for once.

That was over a week ago now, and the mild weather has long since passed. The sun beating down on your backs is harsh and unforgiving, your damn bodysuits keeping in the heat and acting as your own portable sauna. You are exhausted, Porco has been riding you hard to keep up the pace all week, improving your chances of out-running Zeke and his goons. You understand the urgency, but boy is this a bitch.

The day you left the wind farm Waypoint, Pock spent the first few hours explaining his grand plan and everything he knew thus far, answering your many questions and concerns as you picked your way through the dense woodland. The short of it was that this special grade Porter, known only as Sam, was travelling the wasteland to connect Knot Cities to something called the Chiral Network. You honestly stopped listening during that part, you knew enough about chiralium and how it shaped this new world, but a lot of the heavier stuff went over your head.

The UCA government hoped that this would bring about order and communication between Knot Cities and act as a catalyst to revive civilisation. Porco wanted to be a part of that change, said he was sick of sitting on his ass between delivering packages, and he hoped that getting on a boat and leaving would put enough distance between you and Zeke Yeager.

So here you are, heading to Lake Knot to travel across the water to "greener pastures". You suppose you shouldn't complain, besides the gruelling physical aspect, it's been quite pleasant travelling with Pock. He always has a teasing remark or some stupid joke to throw your way whenever you think you are too exhausted to continue, a little distraction to keep your mind off the aches and pains. He always has a helping hand at the ready when you slip or struggle, and without his drive and determination you're not sure you would have made it this far, in all honesty.

You've noticed that your smiles and laughter come easier now, you no longer try to hide them or shy away from his familiarity and kindness. You've also noticed the changes in physical intimacy since the night you woke up crying for him…He's always finding some way to touch you, always keeping you close. It was subtle at first, a hand hovering at your back while you trekked up a cliff face, the light brush of his fingers as he passed you a spare snack from his rucksack.

You can't remember when the touches became more frequent, when you started to respond to them in kind. But now rest stops consist of the two of you slumped against one another under the shade of a pine, your head lolling on his shoulder as you nap idly. And your evenings now look like a scene out of a domestic romcom, your legs sprawled over his lap while you read whatever book/magazine they have in the rest pod, and he fusses around with his Bridges cuff plotting your next course.

It's alarming how quickly this development has arisen, and yet, you can't bring yourself to mind it. It feels good to have someone, to not be alone anymore. You hope it brings the same sense of comfort to him as well.

Currently, you are sprawled out over the rock-strewn grass, bodysuit open at the chest, as you lean back against the pack strapped to your shoulders, achieving a semi-upright position with your legs thrown out in front of you. As soon as you had happened upon the small clearing in the forest, and Porco had suggested taking a lunch break here, you clumsily stumbled over to the body of water further ahead and collapsed to the ground without a word.

The sun is high in the sky and you have been hiking all morning without a break. You are covered in a light sheen of sweat underneath your suit, but you are too exhausted to pull your arms out of the material and tie it at your waist, instead choosing to be content with it just unzipped at the front. The rush of fresh air against your damp skin is heavenly and you dangle your head backwards, no longer able to keep the weight of it upright, and watch the wispy clouds shift and move across the blue canvas above you. The waterfall that feeds into the lake next to you provides a calming static, white noise to your drowsy mind.

You think you might doze off, until Porco drops down across from you, his pack hitting the earth with a crunch. You startle a little at the sound, closer than you expected, and groan at the ache in your back and legs. You hear the crinkle of a packet and roll your head up a little to peer over a shoulder. Porco is already munching on a protein bar and wiggles the item at you teasingly when he catches you staring.

You groan once more and drop your head backwards again, not caring about the uncomfortable stretch in your neck at the sudden strain. Your stomach decides to rumble, as if hinting at you to move your ass and feed it.

“If you don’t move, you can’t eat.”

You ignore the amused tone in his voice and huff, closing your eyes in defeat, tiredness taking over your senses. You don’t know how long you remain like that, probably crushing half the contents in your bag, as you drift in and out of consciousness. It’s not until something is thrown at you, hitting your chest and dropping into your lap, that you sit up with the intention to eat. Porco has finished his lunch and is stripping his own bodysuit off his shoulders, letting it dangle at his waist. He begins to stretch as you focus on shrugging off your pack and opening up the protein bar, eager to fill your empty stomach.

You’re about halfway through the bar when you notice that Pock is pulling his suit down further, peeling it over his toned legs and yanking his feet out of his boots before stepping out of it. You swallow your mouthful before clearing your throat and speaking up.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Gonna take a dip,” he responds as his shirt is removed next. You fix your gaze elsewhere, eyes betraying you with a flick to the side, to catch a peek of those abs you’ve grown so fond of.

“I’m sorry, what?” You are dumbfounded. Surely, he’s kidding around? You’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by human-eating monsters and rain that can age anything it touches. It’s hardly safe to let your guard down here. Is he insane? Not to mention that water is going to be freezing. But his shorts are next to go.

“Oh, come on-“ he laughs at your incredulous look, “-we deserve a proper break, besides I need to wash off all this sweat.” You stutter over a response to his absurdity, and without warning, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pulls them down over his ass cheeks.

“Jesus christ!” You yell, wildly scrambling to cover your eyes and dropping the last piece of your lunch in the process. You catch a grin from him before he’s gone, leaping into the water and disappearing under the surface with a splash. You lower your hands and think about the flash you got, the supple curve of his ass. Great, now that image will be seared into your mind whenever you look at him, that bastard knows what he is doing all too well.

You can't help but laugh when he pops back up, breaching the surface, a wide grin on his face and wet hair sticking to his forehead. He uses a hand to smooth back his hair, an action so familiar to you by now after all these weeks together, and watch as a droplet of water rolls from his elbow down the curve of his bicep.

“You’re mental,” you call to him, and he shrugs in response, treading water slowly.

“Isn’t it cold?” you ask, cocking a brow.

“Refreshing!” He calls back, and uses a hand to splash water at you from afar, as if to prove his statement.

You shriek and cower back, “You ass! Don’t get my clothes wet!” You seethe at him as you shake the droplets from your suit and brush the front of your shirt. You have spare clothes to change into but nowhere to put damp clothing if they get wet.

“Wouldn’t get wet if you weren’t wearing any,” comes his sly response, he has moved to the edge of the bank, peering over the earth as he sinks a little deeper into the water.

You narrow your eyes at him, “You want me to get in there? Naked?” You punctuate your words with a stab of your finger, first at yourself, and then in his general direction.

He shrugs again and gives a short answer, “Up to you,” before he twists his body up and around and pushes away from the edge, cutting through the water as he swims away from you. Up to you.

You hate him. You do. You’re not sure if he’s expecting you to fall prey to his teasing or if he’s teasing because he thinks you won’t actually do it. Either way, you figure, you have to do this. Just to see the look on his face. So before you can overthink it, you remove your heavy boots and thick socks and stand up, hastily stepping out of your suit as you step closer to the water's edge.

You remove your leggings slowly as you watch Pock, he’s swimming laps, powerful arms driving him through the lake. Water ripples out from his frame as you watch the muscles of his shoulders and back flex with every stroke. It’s a mesmerising sight, oddly relaxing, and you almost don’t want to look away. But you do anyway, to pull your shirt over your head, and discard it behind you. Now you are standing in just your panties and chest wrap, the cool air licking at your skin and sending goosebumps scattering over your flesh.

You dip a toe into the water and suck in a large breath, oh it’s cold alright. But it’s nice against your feverish and sweaty skin. You take another deep breath for courage and unwrap your chest with practiced fingers before sliding your panties over your thighs and letting them drop to the ground.

Porco has finished his lap now, and before he gets an eyeful of your exposed body hovering awkwardly by the bank, you jump towards the blue-black surface with a small scream.

Porco watches out of the corner of his eye (unbeknownst to you), as you dip a toe into the lake, obviously debating whether to get in or not. In all honesty, he didn't expect you to take his bait and actually do it, it was more of a desperate hope. One that is quickly blooming into anticipation as he watches you quickly unwind the bandages around your chest with expert fingers.

When you let the billowing fabric drop to the earth, he thinks that maybe he should look away, but fuck do your tits look good; heavy now they are supporting their own weight and nipples pebbling in the cool air. He watches in a kind of trance, still side-eyeing you surreptitiously, as you slowly pull your panties down your thighs and let the material join the bandages on the floor, stepping out of them daintily.

The brief thought that you might be executing this little show on purpose, for him, flashes through his mind before he dismisses it entirely. The way your head turns to him with squinted eyes indicates that you were not aware of his lustful gaze. He quickly wipes his face with a hand to act as if he hadn’t just been staring shamelessly.

When he is sure that you aren’t looking his way anymore, his eyes flick back to you, seeking out your familiar silhouette framed in the golden glow of the sun. He sees the hesitation, as you stand at the bank shivering, and staring into the waters below you. He sees the deep breath of air that you fill your lungs with before you launch yourself away from the edge.

Time seems to stand still as he watches you reach the peak of your jump, suspended in mid air, mouth open in shock (perhaps at the disbelief that you actually took this leap of faith). Your skin seems to glitter in the light, catching the sun's rays, and your hair is wild around your head. He smiles when you plunge into the lake with a yell and an uncoordinated flail of limbs. He definitely looked cooler when he jumped.

You come up sputtering and choking, no doubt having taken a lungful of lake water with the way your mouth had been hanging open like a fish. He slowly paddles over to you, trying not to laugh aloud at the curses spilling from your lips as you wipe water from your eyes, blinking rapidly. As he approaches you he stops to tread water, his movements light and slow; at odds with your fast, aggressive flailing as you continue to scrape at your face with a hand while trying to remain afloat.

Eventually, you calm down and acknowledge his presence, pinning him with an impressive glare that would have sent him scattering if he were not used to your temperament already.

“Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” you warn him, with an edge to your voice.

“What grin?” he counters, smiling impishly at you, doing his best to keep his eyes on your face.

“That one,” you splash a hand at his face, spraying him with water, and he manages to close his eyes at the last second.

“Feel better?” he asks, opening one eye to peek at you, ready for another attack.

“A little,” you respond with a pout, teeth chattering as you bob in the water, looking pathetic and ready to start complaining.

“Nuh uh, you’re not being miserable right now.”

“But-“

“Nope. We are relaxing, no pouting, no whining. You deserve a little fun, I think.”

You frown at him, but he sees a slight smile tug at the corners of your lips, and he continues.

“And I deserve a lot for putting up with your-“ you cut him off with another wave of brackish water to his face. He sputters in your direction, spitting the water that you got in his mouth at your face, before taking off towards the other end of the lake when he sees the look on your face. You howl in anger at his retreating back and throw a particularly filthy curse his way that has him chuckling.

“Catch me, if you can!” he yells over a shoulder, and you do your darnedest.

You both swim laps for a few minutes, exhaustion dampened by a second wind, a combination of the biting cold of the water and the thrill of your little lake sojourn. The murky water provides a shoddy semblance of modesty, both of you fully aware of each other's nakedness below the surface.

Porco has seen you undressed before, many times in fact, but always in your underwear or wrapped up in a towel. It is an awkward acceptance that you are both forced to wear given the situation.

But this is different, he has seen you fully now…everything bare to him. You took off your clothing, not because you had to, but because you chose to. Chose to be naked and vulnerable, to let slip the careful guard you had spent all this time frantically holding up – to let him in, if only an inch. You are trusting him at this moment.

He knows that the dynamic between you is changing, morphing into...something different. And it changed irrevocably the moment he stripped naked and goaded you like a child, and you joined him, taking that leap of faith into the unknown.

And he feels it now, that shift, as he looks at you; leaning against an outcrop of rock next to him, chest heaving from the race you just barely lost, the swell of your breasts breaching the water. Your shoulders are relaxed, slumped against the rock, and keeping you upright. There is a ledge of rock sitting below the surface that juts out from the formation, and you are both using it as a makeshift footrest, heels dug into the hard surface.

Damp wisps of baby hair are curling around your forehead, water or sweat or maybe both, dripping from your hairline and sliding down your temples. Stray drops drip from your lashes and hit your full cheeks when you blink. They look like tears when they fall and Porco finds himself reaching towards you on instinct. He uses the pad of his thumb to wipe at the soft skin under your eye, brushing the droplets away.

Your head turns toward him, eyes blinking up at him in alarm as his thumb traces the path of water down your cheek, stopping at the plump of your bottom lip. His touch ghosts over the flesh there. He notices your wide eyes glance down to his mouth unconsciously, before they flick back up to his eyes quickly. The moment stills for a heartbeat, the world falling away, as his touch lingers and your gazes meet.

It isn’t until he pulls away and clears his throat that sound returns, the waterfall behind you crashing into the lake and creating a buzz in his ears. The treeline surrounding the clearing you sit in the middle of provides a soft susurration of the wind through the leaves. Birds chirp and chatter as they pass through the clearing, flying low, their beaks kissing the ground as they pluck bugs from the earth. It feels almost normal, in this little pocket of tranquillity, where flora and fauna thrive. There is no rain nor dark cloud in sight, no monstrosities sucking the warmth and life from the air, no current reminder that this life is an apocalyptic wasteland; a waiting room for the stranded souls of the dead.

Porco leans back against the rock, mirroring you, and lets out a content sigh. His eyes fluttering shut as he pretends to act casually, but his heart is racing, and he’s sure you can see the blood that has rushed to his cheeks. Even with his eyes closed, he can see your pretty face. Your eyes boring into his own, searching for the hidden meaning in the gentle touches he bestows upon you, almost as if he can’t help himself. And he can’t.

He’s tried, God knows he has. He knows you find it hard to trust, he supposes everyone nowadays are the same. He knows you aren’t fully comfortable with unannounced touching, even with the simplest and most innocent of acts. That much is apparent from the way you jump at a hand on your arm, or flinch at his fingers examining the many injuries you seem to attract. It's what has driven him to do better, to prove to you that you can trust him.

And every time you accept his teasing and poking, or actively seek out his hand in the dark, clutching onto it to drive the nightmares away; it’s all the sweeter to him because he has earned it. And he finds himself wanting to earn more, to be privy to every part of yourself, to have you offer yourself up in the palm of a hand.

He groans inwardly. He is acting a fool, there are more important things at stake, but this world is cruel and unforgiving. Real connections are rare, friendship and intimacy few and far between. Even if you feel nothing for him, beyond this sense of circumstantial camaraderie, even if everything stays the same as it is now – he wants to hold onto this connection. A bond like this he hasn’t felt since Marcel-

His brother. He’s been trying to keep his face, the memories, out of his mind since your conversation about the Yeager’s all those days ago. He almost opened up, almost spilled his guts to a near complete stranger in a moment of weakness. It seems you have that effect on him, and he tells himself it is only fair since he seeks the same from you. He knows he can’t avoid the topic forever, can’t run from his past, from the reality that Marcel is gone. But fuck it, does he try most days.

You must sense the internal struggle raging inside him, for you speak up, breaking the tense silence between you. You ask in a hushed and tired voice, “Do you think there’s a future for us?”

His eyes dart to your face and notice the nervous squirming of your body, arms crossing over your ample chest in sudden bashfulness, as you realise the implication of your words.

He chuckles lightly and looks out toward the treeline, scanning your surroundings, ever the lookout. If you are caught unawares out here, then you’ll wind up dead. He thinks over your question seriously, “Us, as in humanity?”

He senses you nod beside him and continues, “Sure there is...humanity always prevails, holds on tight to life, kicking and screaming,” he smiles wanly, not at all amused by his own words. He feels you shiver beside him, the tinkle of water reaching his ears as you disturb the stillness around you. It’s not from the cold, you both adjusted to the water’s temperature long ago.

“Sorry. Yeah, I think there’s a future for us,” he smiles genuinely this time, at your chosen phrasing. “If I didn’t, then we wouldn’t be here right now.”

There’s a pause as you mull over his words, and then you ask quietly, “Do you think we will see that future? Something better than this?” So quietly, that he almost doesn’t hear over the rush of the waterfall, and this time he knows the ‘we’ is intended. You mean him and you, as individuals.

“Probably not,” he answers earnestly, in a tone a little too cheery for the grim reality of the situation. He side-eyes you, head still lazing back against the rock behind him, and catches your look of incredulity and slight distaste.

“Hey, I told ya, I don’t sugar-coat it,” you snort loudly at that, “but we can help carve out that future for the generations to come.” You turn your body slightly to face him at those words, features softening, some indiscernible emotion flickering in your eyes.

You stare at each other for a few seconds. When you look at him it’s as if you’re seeing him differently, looking through him, to what’s underneath. It sends a thrill shooting up his spine, a weight settling over his chest. You look at him as if you want to say something in particular, but you must decide against it because instead you mumble, “Yeah, yeah we can.”

The conversation lulls again, the both of you thinking over your discussion and the days to come, side by side in a comfortable quiet. Eventually, he decides to break the silence this time with his own question.

“So, in an ideal world, no Death Stranding,” you hum in acknowledgement and shift in the water to face him properly, “what would you wanna be? Besides a glorified delivery person,” he smiles at you knowingly.

Your brow wrinkles at his question and Porco thinks it adorable, “What would I wanna be?” you echo lamely.

He nods encouragingly. “Hmm, I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

He laughs in disbelief, “No way, really?” He scans your face, looking for something, any indication as to what is causing the strange look of despair on your face. What are you thinking?

“Well yeah,” you respond a little awkwardly, “I mean, I didn’t really see the point, it’s never going to happen.” You poke your finger into a hole in the rock that’s been worn smooth as you talk.

“And I guess,” you hesitate, your words caught on your tongue, mind whirring away behind your eyes, as if finding the best way to phrase your thoughts, “I haven’t really felt all that inspired by life, considering we’re surrounded by death. It’s a little depressing, if you hadn’t noticed,” you tack on the last remark with a wry smile tossed his way, finger still working it’s way in the hole, a nervous habit he realises. You always find something to do with your hands when you’re uncomfortable, worrying at your clothes or twisting your fingers together.

His heart aches, because he knows that look on your face, he’s been there. Still is there sometimes. It was especially bad after he lost Marcel. He wants to hold you, comfort you somehow, but he instead chooses his next words carefully, as you had yours.

“Yeah, I get that,” he nods at you and you look up from the rock finally, assessing his features, perhaps to ascertain whether he really meant what he said. “It can be hard to see a point in living when life is...well, like this,” he gestures at your surroundings as a whole.

“But, we carry on,” he says lightly, studying your expression; the sad curve of your lips and the line of your nose, the set of your brows and the melancholy shining in those beautiful eyes.

“But why?” you whisper, searching his face, as if he holds all the answers to your uncertainty and pain.

“Because we have to,” he shrugs nonchalantly, despite the weight of his words, and the severity in his tone.

And then you surprise him, you always seem to, because you smile at him. It’s a small, wretched smile, and he thinks such a tiny action has never held so much understanding, so much emotion. Before he can think of a way to change that hopeless look painted across your delicate features, you speak again.

“I need some time to think about it, you go.” The worry and emotion has bled from your features, your careful facade back in place and tone casual again, but your voice laced with a tiredness that reaches bone deep. It’s that weariness that cemented his decision to rest here for longer than usual, it’s all you can afford if you want to stay ahead of anyone potentially trailing you. By tonight you will be inside in a real bed, sharing each other’s body heat, and the world won't seem so large and daunting.

“Okay, okay,” he starts, “I would study medicine, properly. I was always interested in it as a kid because of my brother but…wasn’t meant to be, I guess,” his voice falters slightly under your scrutinising gaze, suddenly very aware of the innermost parts of him laid bare for you to see. Your ability to make him nervous is really outstanding and becoming quite troublesome for him to hide.

He carries on in a rush, “I wouldn’t be a doctor, like Marcel was, but maybe a paramedic or even ju-“ you interrupt his anxiety babble with thoughts of your own, and he finds himself grateful for it.

“Hey, I didn’t say anything, that’s a noble dream,” You hum low in your throat, “I wasn’t expecting that answer from you, yaknow?” You ask of him with a crooked smile.

There is not a huge need for emergency response units in the underground Knot Cities, and above ground is too dangerous to risk sending out experienced medics, so he can understand your point. They exist, sure, and it's far more rewarding than delivering cargo but….that dream of his died along with Marcel.

The initial explosions marking the era of the dead wiped out a vast majority of the human population, and there aren’t enough qualified hands as it is, most medical professionals cover multiple areas of expertise these days to make up for their decrease in numbers. Something that Pock is sure he couldn’t do; he could resuscitate a patient, sure, stabilise them and assess the damage…but a surgeon he is not.

Of course, his brother could and did, always willing to go that extra mile for his people. The most Marcel had done on a day-to-day basis was wipe the scraped knees of snotty toddlers, sometimes set a broken bone of one of the older kids, and generally keep everyone’s health monitored; prescribing routine medication to the elderly and those with health conditions. He would let Porco help him during those easier days, showing him basic first aid and enlisting his help with keeping track of all the medication they had in storage.

It varied depending on the needs of the people, sometimes Marcel was called away further than usual, to fill in where a particular skill set he boasted was needed. When he was called in for surgery, those were the real tough moments, certain equipment and medicines were in short supply underground; and given the risks of a patient dying on the table, it was an immense pressure to bear.

A pressure that Pock knew well, the weight of it had been evident in the set of Marcel’s shoulders, in the flash of his eyes after a particularly difficult day. It was yet another reason he trained hard and got in shape to be eligible for a Porter position; so he could bring back those all-important items that could potentially not only save one life, but hundreds.

“That’s me, ever a mystery; tall, dark and handsome,” he jests lightly, trying not to let those bitter memories bleed into the lines of his features. He relishes in the way your eyes light up with mirth.

“Oh sure, you’re a real enigma,” you roll your eyes at him playfully, “but you’re 5”10, at best, and also blonde.” He pretends to be hurt at your words, recoiling back as if stung. You laugh, a melodious sound that carries over the water and echoes back at him in the small clearing.

You then pin him with a curious look, “But it suits you, the more I think about it,” you trail your hand over the uneven rock between you as you think, absent-minded fingertips skimming over the dips and bumps, and stopping just before you meet the curve of his upper arm. The proximity makes his skin prickle, and a shudder works its way up his spine involuntarily.

“You’re good in high stress situations, nothing seems to phase you,” his mind flashes to the first moment he saw you; struggling in a pit of black tar and screaming like a warrior on the battlefield as you fought tooth and nail against the ghostly hands imprisoning you. If only you knew how rattled he had really been, how close he was to turning tail and running, you wouldn’t give him any credit now.

But still you go on, “You’re firm, but kind, intelligent and resourceful.”

Porco is taken aback at your praise, it’s probably the only time you’ve voiced a positive thing about him with such sincere intention. He would never say it aloud, but he is touched at your sincere appraisal of him. Marcel sparked his interest in the medical field, and he often has this feeling of yearning that pursuing the same career path and walking in the same steps he did, would make him feel closer to the man again. Give him back a little piece of his brother’s soul, some physical connection to Marcel, something more than just the memories they shared.

But he had always hated being stuck underground. Day in and day out, and that only worsened after Marcel died, he couldn't stand to be cooped up around the people who knew, couldn’t stand their pitying stares and faux concern. It didn’t take long for them to move on and forget Marcel anyway, leaving his family lost and broken, never quite whole from that day forth.

He figured finding himself and his own sense of purpose out in the world, above ground, might bring him some sense of acceptance about what happened. And at the time, anything that reminded him of Marcel, was too painful to pursue. If he is being completely honest, at first, he hoped he might not survive long in the BT-ridden landscape; hoped he would at least be free of his grief. But after stepping out into the world, he realised there is no longer any peace for those who passed on, not in the Death Stranding.

Besides, Marcel would have been disappointed to see Porco like that, so hopeless and defeated. So, he carried on and fought hard to work his way up the Porter ranks, in the hopes he could one day make some sort of difference for humanity; no matter how small. And as he returns to the moment, shrinking away from those painful memories once more, he doesn’t regret his choices, because it brought him to you; perhaps the only person who has ever tried to understand him and see past the brash exterior.

“Plus, there’s the uniform,” you look up at him with a new shine in your eyes, drawing his attention away from his thoughts, and back to your beauty.

He laughs at that, your ability to lighten the mood always surprising him, “Oh yeah? You like thinking about me in uniform?” He attempts to nudge you with an arm, and you push away from the rock to evade the elbow in the ribs, water now up to your chin as you tread water.

“Anything but that bulky monstrosity,” you jerk your head towards the grass where your suits lay abandoned. “But a medic? Yeah, I think you’d look good in green.” Your voice is low, and he thinks he imagines the breathless quality to it, as you move through the water a little. He straightens involuntarily, pulse quickening at the shift in the atmosphere.

“You never answered the question,” he practically whispers, as you drift closer still. He feels himself leaning towards you instinctively, drawn to you as if by a magnetic pull he can no longer resist, rushing through his veins. The comfortable atmosphere that has grown between you from days and nights in each other’s presence has slowly morphed into something deeper, and he feels it now more than ever; thick and heavy, almost stifling in its tangibility.

You hover in front of him, so close and yet still so far, your legs kicking his as you remain afloat. Your gaze flicks up from his mouth to his eyes as you finally answer, “I’d want to be happy.”

The words fall from your lips in a murmur, eyes hazy as you look up at him through lowered lashes, and then your mouth is on his.

Through this whole exchange you find yourself unable to think about anything other than the small space between you and Pock, the translucent blue barely concealing the outline of his waist from you. That glimpse of his naked flesh beneath the surface, so close to your own, has your thoughts spiralling. And none of them are safe for work.

You can hardly keep up with the nuanced conversation between the two of you, let alone keep your eyes to yourself, his damp skin shimmers so enticingly in the weak sunlight that filters into the little pocket of space you both occupy. You catch yourself glancing at the lean muscle of his arms and chest more than once. And now with him so close you see the flush of his cheeks, the light dusting of pink across his nose, those plump lips practically begging to be kissed. You aren’t sure when you instinctively began drawing closer to him, cannot pinpoint the moment you decided the hell with it.

But now you’re so close that when he whispers to you, you see the bob of his Adams apple, thick neck flexing and hazel eyes scanning your face before they settle on your mouth. You kick out in the water to push yourself up, and your legs collide with his, at the same moment you finally mumble a response to his question.

Within seconds your legs are tangled up in his own, your upper body breaching the surface and your hands pressing against the hard plains of his chest as your lips meet his, flesh against flesh.

Despite the urgency in both your movements; the push of your feet against jagged stone to reach his face, his rough hands that grip your elbows in a steadying embrace as he meets you halfway, the kiss is a gentle caress. It is hesitant at first, lips slotting awkwardly and noses bumping together, but slowly your mouths melt into one another; your skin moulding to fit his like liquid shifting to fit its container. It feels right, as natural as existing, and that scares the small part of your brain that is still coherent.

Neither of you dare move from your embrace, neither of you dare breathe even, for fear of breaking this sudden fragile intimacy between you. You lose yourself in the sensation of him, his heated skin and searing touch, the surprising softness of him despite all the muscle and hands hardened by work. The smell of damp and dirt and iron and sweat tugs at your consciousness, reminding you of where exactly you are.

It’s only when his tongue swipes against your bottom lip in a whisper, do your lips part in obedience, your mind hardly aware of your actions, letting your body talk for once instead of your mouth. As your tongues meet in a slow waltz, you taste the faint artificial sweetness of berries on his breath.

Your hands ever so slowly creep up and over his chest until you are resting your elbows on his broad shoulders, arms automatically winding around his neck. Your bare front is pressed to his own, and you find no time to care about the innate intimacy, no time to find your own insecurity. His own hands drift over you, slipping from your arms down to the curve of your back, fingertips pressing into your skin.

You play with the shaggy hair of his undercut with wet fingertips, it has grown out quickly, and you make a mental note to sit him down later and cut it. Your nails scratch against his scalp with urgent care; a silent plea for more, a desperate attempt to stay grounded in reality, a small release of the pent-up desire in your veins, thick and molten. You battle with the urge to devour him whole, and the voice inside your mind that tells you to quit while you’re ahead, to focus on the mission. On survival.

But the small gasp that catches in his throat at your hardened nipples against his chest, at your fingernails scratching at his skin and the low moan that follows, tears through your composure and last shred of rational thought. You press into him firmly, willing your body to eradicate any and all space between your two bodies, your hips canting forward into his own. It’s then that you feel his hardened length against you, the curve of him pressing into your flesh just above your belly button, and the growing pit in your core drops; the feverish want that licked at the edges of your sanity shooting straight between your legs and eliciting a breathless sound from the back of your throat.

Pock’s arms tighten around you before he slides his hands to your hips and pushes gently. Your lips leave his reluctantly with an embarrassingly loud noise, and you both breathe heavily into the new space separating you. Pock leans his forehead against your own on an exhale and you rub your nose against his own before you fully realise the affectionate nature to the gesture.

You shut your eyes for a few seconds and focus on your breathing, suddenly aware of your proximity now the bubble of desire has popped. Suddenly feeling very exposed and self conscious, but too reluctant to move. Fuck. What have you done? What a way to keep it professional, this just made things a lot more complicated.

Your spiralling thoughts are interrupted by Porco, his voice gruffer than before, the low timbre sending a shiver through you, “Well...”

“Don’t.” You warn, but there is no real conviction behind the word.

“I thought you didn’t like me,”

“I don’t,” you reply, scrunching your eyes tighter, trying to will the image of that damned smirk of his out of your mind.

“Thought you found me annoying,” he pushes.

“I do,” you are being a brat intentionally, both answers are a lie (well maybe just the first one), and he knows it as well as you do. You sigh, as if you are troubled by the current events, and pull your head away from his own. But your arms stay wound around his neck, tethering you to him in a way that feels all too comfortable.

“Huh, that was some kiss for someone who claims to dislike me,” he smiles at you wide, full lips curving so prettily over white teeth, a dimple set into one cheek. Your heart speeds up as you do your best to give him a cool look.

“I thought it might shut you up for awhile, but I was wrong, my bad,” you tug at the short hair by his nape with a flippant smile.

“That so?” His grin widens and he licks at his bottom lip, eyes darting back down to your mouth. “Guess you’ll have to try again,” he attempts to sound innocent despite his ‘cat that got the cream’ expression. You set him up for that one.

“But later,” he adds, his smile dropping and those soft features hardening. The familiar frown he so loves to sport works it’s way onto his face as he scans your surroundings; you think that he probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, or how cute he looks, but that’s neither here nor there.

You stiffen at his serious tone and watch him carefully, “Something wrong?” You flick your eyes to the left and then the right, scanning for danger.

“No, but we’re vulnerable out here,” he shifts in the water, tucking you to his side slightly.

“I don’t wanna say we’ve wasted time,” he gives you a side glance with a sparkle of mischief in his eye, “as productive as we’ve been, we have to move on.”

You sigh and nod, you really had let time get away from you, not a smart choice. Now, you will be making up for lost time and you are sure Porco will not go easy on you. You both swim to the opposite side of the lake where the water is shallowest and drag yourselves onto the bank, you a little less gracefully than Pock, but thankfully he says nothing on the matter.

Despite your earlier intimacy, you are both careful to look away as you trudge back to your suits and packs, giving the other as much privacy as you can afford given the situation. Pock allows you first dibs of the small towel you are now glad you packed (just in case) and you quickly pat your skin dry before handing it to him wordlessly.

You dress swiftly and don your suits again; you barely have your pack over your shoulders before Pock is making a beeline for the trees, his hand brushing your elbow as he guides you along.

The grind begins again, and you do your best to keep up with Porco’s hurried strides. Try as you might, the memory of your skinny dip in the lake doesn’t leave your thoughts, and you let them wander aimlessly as you trek along; the feel of his lips a phantom against your own.

It takes about an hour for you to leave the lake and surrounding forest behind, clearing the mountains completely and dipping into the valley below. The change of scenery is welcome, but there is too much open space, and Pock insists you stick to the edge of the valley. Keeping the sloping mountains to one side means one less direction for enemies to approach from, and the lumps of jagged rock keep you semi-hidden as you continue your trek.

You are lagging behind, your energy and patience running thin, but you're so close…a few more miles and you'll hit your last Waypoint before you reach Lake Knot. Every time Porco looks back to hurry you along, you grumble at him under your breath. A heavy-footed step sends a small pebble skittering from under your boot, and you stumble, dangerously close to eating shit. You curse foully into the humid air.

You're not sure how much more of this you can take…you've just got to think of other things, like a cool shower and clean clothes, that's exactly what the doctor ordered. You hear the quiet thrum of white noise, but in your exhausted, daydreaming state you fail to acknowledge it. And when you finally realise the noise isn't a figment of your imagination, when you hear the scattering of pebbles and the splash of the stream, it's already too late.

The bike comes zooming past before you have the chance to cry out, your voice lost in sudden shock. But you recognise the rider's shaggy hair immediately, and you see exactly what (or who), he is racing for. Your vocal chords finally catch up to your brain as you scream out a warning.

Your heart sinks in your chest as you watch the scene unfold in slow motion, watch as Porco turns at your panicked voice, only for his eyes to widen as he spots Zeke hurtling for him. It all plays out within seconds, despite your slowed perception, and when you hear the sickening crack of the stick against the back of Porco's kneecaps the world resumes in real time. You break out into a sprint, the surge of adrenaline aiding you and pushing you past the hurdle of fatigue.

Porco drops to his knees with a pained roar, falling forwards onto his hands, his body spasming as the electric current frazzles his nerves. Zeke is laughing, loud and confident, and full of glee. He throws the bike into a u-turn, curving back on himself in an arc of dust and debris, before heading straight for you. You flinch, but pick up the speed anyway, racing towards Pock with a determination that surprises even yourself.

Your lungs are fit to burst and your heart is hammering so wildly it's a wonder it doesn't beat right out of your chest. But Zeke has other ideas, and he cuts you off before you can reach Porco, bike skidding in the dirt mere inches from you. You halt so abruptly that the force sends you sprawling to the ground, skinning your palms in the process. Thank biology for miss adrenaline, otherwise that would fucking hurt right about now.

You pant against the earth, eyes watering at the harsh sting, choking on the dust trying to clog your lungs. You push yourself onto all fours with trembling arms, blood smearing the grass and dirt beneath you, but you don't care. You only have eyes for the piece of shit before you, blocking your view completely from Porco, as he regards you with mild interest. Like you're an insect he's noticed on the ground while out on a leisurely stroll, not a human being he's hunted for his own sport.

He pushes his glasses up his nose before he speaks, "Hey, sweetheart."

You spit into the dirt at his feet with enough force that you hope he gets the message, fuck you asshole, as several more electric bikes halt around you – caging you in.

Zeke's face transforms into a sadistic grin as he leers down at you, and somehow, you know the word that is going to leave his mouth before it does, "Checkmate."

page divider by @/firefly-graphics

Thank you for reading! 💙

48 notes · View notes