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There are many things they teach Jeno at the Facility.
One , seek cover when directly exposed in a firefight. Jaemin is shot in the leg on the way out of the district by a band of looters, and he drags them into a convenience store by the roadside, through underbrush that leaves bloody pinpricks on his arms, conceals their tracks.
Two , assess the situation. There is a bathroom at the very rear of the store, and he carries Jaemin inside as he swears under his breath, muttering I had them ’s and you should have let me shoot back’ s all the way inside. The cleanest surface is right under a dusty window, and Jaemin props himself up as he reaches into his bag, fumbles for the appropriate stimulant.
Three , in case of laceration, utilize blue stimulant. In case of burn, utilize orange stimulant. In case of bullet wound, utilize—
“Are you going to let me bleed out on the floor, or are you going to help?” His fingers close around the red stimulant, and he uncaps the needle as Jaemin stares back at him, mouth set in a line that is equal parts pain and withering sarcasm. “I thought Sentinels, even rogue ones, were supposed to be super soldiers, and competent medics, and—”
“I’ve got the stimulant right here.” He gulps around the words, voice like gravel—talking is still unfamiliar to Jeno, being able to move his lips free of the standard issue mouthguard, but Jaemin is even more foreign. A breach in careful protocol and organized thought, a liability. Someone who’d take a bullet to the thigh and decide to shoot back , he thinks. “I’m going to use it now.”
“We’ve been traveling together for nearly a month, Jeno. You don’t have to ask to save my life.” Jaemin punctuates the sentence by stretching out languidly, and Jeno resists the undisciplined and frankly human urge to groan. “You’d think that being with an actual human for four weeks would turn even the most blockheaded of you Sentinels normal , but— Ow!”
Jeno injects him with the stimulant, and Jaemin shudders beneath him as he holds his legs down with his body weight, allowing the chemicals to do their work. It is just as they instructed him at the Facility: palms on the inner thigh, gentle pressure applied to help the steroids circulate through tissue. He presses and kneads the muscle, mechanical movement and practice, until Jaemin’s legs stop trembling and he exhales shakily.
It is silent for a little bit, motes of dust spiraling through the light in shaky orbit as Jaemin breathes, in and out and in, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as the pain subsides. Jeno allows himself a moment to observe the sight, sits back on his haunches between his legs.
“Didn’t expect that I’d be getting action this Valentine’s Day, considering the end of the world and all.” Jaemin quips, waves his hand at their position. It is far from the first time that Jeno has felt completely lost.
“I don’t think I know what you mean.”
He groans in response, and some part of Jeno supplies that the pain should have already subsided by now. Is Jaemin ill? “Valentine’s Day? February 14th? Hearts, chocolate, romance? Did they not teach you that in Sentinel School or something?”
There are many things that they do not teach Jeno at the Facility. One year-cycle reset, Donghyuck had asked the head commander if something called “Christmas” could be included in their training plan for the following year, and he’d been sent to solitary. He supposes that Valentine’s Day is one of these things, and it gnaws at a small ache that he has learned to keep in the hollow of his chest, one that is dangerously curious.
“Could you elaborate?”
“It’s a normal-people holiday—emphasis on normal —when people do things for other people they like.”
Jeno tilts his head, leans in closer to listen, and he notes the bob of Jaemin’s Adam's apple in his throat. Interesting. “Like how?”
“Like as in…romantically. They buy people flowers and send them gifts, take them on dates—” His eyes drift lower, and Jeno mirrors the action, traces the line of his cupid’s bow. Jaemin’s lips are…aesthetically pleasing. A dusty shade of pink, cracked around the edges and plump between his teeth. “—and sometimes, they kiss.”
“Kiss?” Jeno thinks he might be overheating. Does he need a stimulant? In case of fever, utilize—
There is the sound of denim brushing along tile, then Jaemin is leaning in, pressing his lips to his, and the tip of his nose brushes against Jeno’s cheek. A smudge of grease lies along his cheekbone, Jeno realizes, and he cannot resist the urge to brush it away with a thumb. There is a hand in his hair, fingers pattering down his nape, and oh— They are glowing in the meager light of the dirty window.
He pulls away first, clumsy, shoulders heaving, and Jaemin’s lips are a deeper red than he has ever seen, comparable to wildfire and the blood running through his veins, molten and hot. Pretty , he finally decides.
“ That was a kiss. It would have been sad if you’d died without ever finding out about one, Sentinel or not.” His voice cracks on the last syllable, eyes dropping to study his newly healed, perfectly intact leg. “Thank me later for the impulse decision.”
“You’re pretty.” What? Nothing about that sentence makes sense to Jeno, even as it leaves his lips. Perhaps it does not have to.
Jaemin flushes, pretty pink and prettier eyes, pretty lips resisting the urge to smile. “And you’ve been absurdly pretty too, all this damn time. It’s fucking unfair, really.” He sneaks a glance, and Jeno catches his gaze, returns it full force. Tucks the moment away for later in the hollow of his chest.
There are many things they do not teach Jeno at the Facility. But he is so, so ready to learn.