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Drip…drip…drip…
Consciousness ebbs and flows, flooding his mind with sharp, cutting pain, before he closes his eyes again, and lets the dreams drag him down to the depths of his mind. He feels weightless here, like he’s floating underwater and the sun is but a reflection above. Drown me, he thinks.
Just drown me.
Water drips from the ceiling, the pouring rain from last night slowly leaking in. The dull, repetitive sound seems to echo through his mind endlessly—drip, drip, drip—like tears down the stone’s face. Drip, it hits the ground. Drip. He wants to scream.
He can’t look at the windows anymore because the sun is too bright, and it hurts to crane his head so far back. He feels exhausted, too tired to move or do much more than breathe and sleep. Drip. It’s hard to focus on anything when the—drip—it’s hard to focus when—drip, drip—focusing is hard when…focusing is drip.
Footsteps.
Yeosang blinks his eyes open, not realizing that he had fallen asleep. How long has it been, now? The sun is gone. It must be nighttime.
Your time is waning, Kang Yeosang.
It is. He thought that they might keep him around longer than this, if only because he’s their best—and only—source of information on the Captain, on the resistance, but it seems his worth has finally run out.
A breath.
Your time is waning. Your time is waning. Your time is waning.
Yeosang uncuffs himself from the chains binding him, the metal rattling against the floor as he drops it, feeling the way the breeze kisses his wrists for the first time in what must be months. He stretches his limbs, wringing out the stiffness from his muscles and breathing a free, beautiful sigh.
The air has never tasted sweeter than it does now, stepping outside into the city, the rain falling down and washing away all the sweat and grime and dried, darkened blood from his skin. He throws his head back, letting the droplets hit his eyelids—drip, drip, drip—and run down his cheek to collect at the edge of his jaw—drip. It’s a relief, he thinks, to finally see the sky again after so long.
The breeze tosses his hair behind him, lifting the tattered remains of his clothes as if easing their burden, letting him step on the wind and be carried to wherever he wants to go—drip, the rain hits the stone beneath his feet, and he catches his reflection in a puddle. His hair has grown out, his cheeks have hollowed, but he looks the happiest he’s seen himself in a while.
The crowd doesn’t mind him, no matter how ratty he must appear. A few people seem to skirt out of his way, rather letting the puddles dirty their hems than Yeosang dirty their skin, but it’s alright. The rain is nice. Drip, drip. He’s searching for his crew in the crowd, for Wooyoung’s laugh or Jongho’s build. He thinks he might find his Captain there, twisting one of his rings around his fingers and looking back at Yeosang with sharp, clever eyes. He thinks he might find Seonghwa there, a soft smile on the man’s face.
There, just there, Seonghwa stands upon a platform, arms outstretched.
Yeosang breaks out into a run, chasing the man’s visage through the fog. He can imagine the warmth of Seonghwa’s skin, can almost hear the breathy laugh that Seonghwa will give when Yeosang tumbles into his arms, stealing the hug that he hasn’t felt for so long.
He finds a scarecrow instead.
Devoid of life, it gazes down at Yeosang with empty eyes. Yeosang shivers. It’s been dressed in black, this god, adorned in golden chains and ribbon. He wonders if it has been deified or cursed, where the line is even drawn between the two.
He reaches out a hand, as if by instinct, fingers brushing across the scarecrow’s cheek. The material is rough against his skin. He traces the rim of its hat, the line of its mask, flinching back when he grazes the cold metal of the chains. It’s beautiful in a strange, twisted way. The decoration is ornate, a sort of reverence woven into the structure that only true devotion could create, and he wonders, perhaps fleetingly, who did create such a thing, and whether they would truly want Yeosang so close to their object of worship.
Dead, empty eyes.
Yeosang takes a step back, unnerved. The scarecrow god just stares back at him, emotionless, unblinking.
He takes another step back, quicker this time, only to knock into something else. A person. Yeosang whips around, coming face to face with Seonghwa.
“Hyung,” he breathes.
Seonghwa smiles. “How are you, Sang-ah?”
Yeosang isn’t sure how to respond. He can see the bandages that have been wrapped around his hyung’s chest, the fatigue that weighs in his eyes, the determination that he keeps in the straight of his back. Yeosang doesn’t feel nearly so strong.
“Dance with me,” Seonghwa says.
Yeosang frowns. Dance? Here? In front of the scarecrow?
But Seonghwa holds out a hand, and Yeosang takes it, tucking his fingers into Seonghwa’s and letting the man lead him in a not-quite waltz, their steps falling in no particular rhythm or arrangement.
The two of them spin, Seonghwa keeping an arm around the back of Yeosang’s waist. They spin and spin until Yeosang starts to feel dizzy, nearly tripping over his own feet. There are other people here, he realizes, figures cloaked in light blue and watching them from below. Yeosang grips the fabric of Seonghwa’s jacket, shrinking back from the onlookers.
Seonghwa holds Yeosang with such careful consideration that Yeosang wants nothing more than to rest his head against the man’s chest and never have to move again. Some part of him, the scared bird that lives in the cage of his ribs, wants to be wrapped within Seonghwa’s embrace and never have to face the world again.
Seonghwa trails a hand along Yeosang’s cheek, brushing his thumb across the birthmark under his left eye. Yeosang leans into the touch, letting his eyes slip closed.
Drip, the rain falls onto his eyelids, catching on his lashes.
Drip, drip.
Yeosang tries to blink the haze away. When did it start raining again? Or rather, when did it stop? Yeosang reaches out, fingers grazing empty air.
“Hyung?” he asks.
Seonghwa is gone.
Yeosang turns his head frantically, searching the barren surroundings.
There, Seonghwa stands upon the platform, arms outstretched as if assuming the scarecrow’s position.
Yeosang runs again, chases him again, not wanting to let him go. He’s selfish, he thinks, deep down. The rain hits his cheeks—drip—and the wind is crooning in his ears until he can’t hear anything but it’s song and the pulse of his own heart in his throat and the sound of the rain—drip—as it hits the pavement below and his own breath as it leaves his lungs and the thudding, thudding of his heart, and it isn’t until he blinks open his eyes that he realizes he was dreaming at all.
It is cold here.
Drip.
How long has it been, now? The sun is bright. It must be daytime.