He had fallen asleep curled to the side. The storage room cannot be considered comfortable at all; yet, his face is half-buried into the shoddy-looking pillow, body languid on the floor, posture alike a corpse. If he were semi-conscious, he might’ve kicked up a fuss about sleeping in such unsanitary conditions but for better or worse, he is dead to the world. There is no other lighting in here sans the glow of the lamp left by the corner.

The room is as it was the first day – dusty, messy, sloppily piled with storage boxes. The young man hadn’t bothered to open any canned foods, either. One look and it’s clear he had gone three days without eating.

“Noah.”

A murmur by his ear stirs his sleep and he frowns, subconsciously burying himself deeper into the pillow. He’s so inexplicably drowsy that it takes only one second for him to knock out again. Whoever had intruded the room – and by association, also his personal space – is intent on waking him, however. His shoulders are being shaken.

“Noah.”

He still doesn’t respond, but the voice gets more insistent.

“I will carry you out if you don’t respond.”

He doesn’t register who’s speaking at all, but he does feel a cool hand dragging itself across his forehead, sliding to check his temperature. The sensation is nice. Somewhere in the middle of the day or night – time isn’t confirmed – he’d broken into a fever. His throat is parched, his head is murky and his breaths are coming out abnormally hot. He subconsciously hums, nuzzles to the only source of cool and allows it closer to his body.

The hand pauses for a bit and then begins to slowly stroke his hair. Noah receives it willingly, even tilting his head to allow for more access. A soft chuckle is heard followed by a low murmur, “you can be this docile?”, but as fever-induced and dazed as he is, he doesn’t know nor care who is touching him. The lateral of his brain tells him it’s one of the kids – Yu Ying, probably, has a tendency to jump on him in the mornings.

The touch becomes ticklish when it slips to the back of his head, then lower to his ears, then the nape of his neck.

“…Mn,” he murmurs softly, words slurred, “Ying Ying…not yet…”

He shudders a little when he feels the same hands snake downwards, unintentionally violating, dangerously close to the sensitive spot between his neck and shoulder – his scent gland – and it’s now that he knows this person isn’t Yu Ying at all. First and foremost, the hand is way too large and rough with calluses and all, and secondly, from the way his body reacts instinctively, his nature craving yet resisting the touch, Noah is now completely alert and ready to shed blood if necessary.

His eyes flutter open and, well, he wasn’t expecting Yu Ying but he also wasn’t expecting a certain person crouching beside him with a shit-eating grin on his face. To make matters worse, the man is now tugging on his ear for likely no other reason than to bother him.

“The nickname is wrong, no?” the colonel speaks in Chinese. “If you want to call me by one, it would be ‘Yang Yang,’ though I do prefer ‘Rong Rong’ or ‘Rong-ge,’ if you say it cutely.”

His initial reaction was to try to break the man’s neck, except, been there, done that, he’d learned a lesson that first time. Instead, he pushes Yang Rong’s hand away and pulls his own shirt collar up. It hardly does anything, though it does provide some mental comfort at least.

“Colonel Yang,” he composes himself instantly, “I’d rather not see your face first thing.”

“Rude.” The man clicks his tongue. “To think you can be so quiet when asleep.”

Noah chooses to ignore the comment. He feels… hot but not because of the fever. It’s a feeling he hasn’t experienced often, but one that he’s aware of intuitively. The heat prickles his skin, an indescribable itch crawling its way down his body. His body sheens with sweat and it’s only made worse with Yang Rong here, the man’s scent faint but telling. Noah rubs the back of his own neck, overriding the spot the colonel had touched.

“Come out,” Yang Rong says as he finally stands up, putting much-needed distance between them. “Dinner is ready.”

Noah breathes out slowly, suppressing the itch in his system. He’s antsy, that much is obvious, from the way he’s not making eye contact, the way he keeps rubbing his neck. “…My backpack really isn’t here?”

Yang Rong raises an eyebrow. “It isn’t. Did you have anything important in it?”

“…Forget it,” he answers before standing up as well. “It isn’t anything.”

“Convincing,” the other man replies, zeroing in on his face. Yang Rong studies him for a while before saying, “If you don’t feel well, let me know and I’ll administer some painkillers. Additionally, you can patch yourself with the med kits in the supply room. The other supply room across the lavatory. This one is for emergency food.”

“I do feel terrible,” he says. “It must be my ribs that you’ve broken.”

“They were already broken.” Yang Rong smirks at him and adds, “Willing to talk more now, little prisoner? I think we can get along pretty well.”

He shouldn’t have said that – the colonel would have to learn later – because Noah is quite recalcitrant and when pegged, would be stubborn down to his word. The young man promptly stops talking and stalks out the door first, skipping the communal space and promptly making a beeline for the bath area.

It’s baffling, really, how well he adapts to this completely foreign environment. He’s memorized the floorplan so quickly he can already move around like it’s second nature. All it took was one glance at the layout by the door and it was detailed, too, unlike the small, shoddy shelter he’d resided for a year. Two large rooms, one for dining and one communal, five plus storage squares, the pantry, a generator, an airlock, emergency exits, a hidden area that leads to the armory or gun room – he assumes, from the slight gap in dimensions – then there’s the sleeping quarters and the shower room.

Sure, it may be substandard for a bourgeois, but it is convenient and basic like a military shelter should be. Noah manages to avoid absolutely everyone in the base and finds himself in the bath area. The space is quite big with three stalls, but he hogs it all and locks the door behind him too. His first reaction is, well, displeased.

Grime and dirt are stuck onto the walls, the floors, in between the cracks and crevices of the vent, and practically every corner he lays his eyes on. Noah, a complete stickler for cleanliness, has to mentally convince himself to strip and get inside. Even wearing the clothes on his back, which are soaked with sweat, is a more appealing option than touching the grimy bathroom walls. He gets through the nausea somehow.

He removes the bandages on his body carefully. The gauze comes out just a little red. Hot water flows from the showerhead and the last residues of blood swirl down the drain. Noah takes his time to soap up, avoiding the clot injuries – the back of his mind thanks that at least this place has soap, a very warm welcome and surprising, too, considering how filthy the area is.

Military showers aren’t normally pleasant, but the shelter is generous enough to not automatically shut off the heat a few minutes in. Noah doesn’t care in the slightest to conserve water. He stays in for fifteen minutes then fifteen more, wrapping his shoulder with the sterile plaster he’d handily taken from the supply room. He also carefully dabs his forehead with a cotton pad, making sure to treat it as neatly as possible to offset any chances of an infection.

He redresses slowly too, first with undergarments he’d also taken, conveniently, from the overhead drawer, then a pair of plain trousers and an even plainer crewneck – he’d made sure that none were worn beforehand. The accommodations weren’t half-bad. He’d taken liberties as a prisoner and helped himself to the toiletries.

The steam from the shower fogs up the half-body mirror by the sink. He stares at his hazy reflection as he brushes his teeth and he guesses it’s understandable why they’d suspect him so strongly. His appearance isn’t the most ordinary – if it weren’t his duo-toned eyes then it’d be his silver hair. He brushes some wet strands out of the way and thinks he should dye it black or brown, any inconspicuous color so he won’t stick out like a sore thumb. The white shirt makes him look even paler, like some meandering ghost with frighteningly feral eyes.

He gets out of the shower room a whole hour later after making sure his entire body is cleaned, sanitized, then cleaned again. He also washed his hands a grand total of five times – he’d touched the doorknob, shuddered, washed them once, then touched the faucet by accident, washed them twice, touched the handle, washed them thrice… The rest is compulsive.

He feels better at last. The fever is more manageable while awake and he has more clarity of where he is (underground, coordinates still unknown), what he’s set out to do (leave), who he should avoid (everyone), and how he’ll make a clean escape, which is past the third emergency exit down the hall, to the left, then straight ahead. He’d already taken his belongings – not much, just the cut-up coat he was wearing before and a random bag he’d snatched up.

He’d even left the shower on to mask any noise he’d make. He’s light on his feet and quick to process the routes he should take. He hears chatter from the communal room. A clink of glassware from the pantry, at least three people talking, one person washing the dishes.

Noah does have acute hearing, but well, he only hears things that are audible, and that does not include being able to hear a person standing still as a statue, leaning against the door of the exit with one hand in his pocket. The man notices his presence and glances at his watch just for the show of it, his shirt sleeve purposefully cuffed up.

“Hello,” Yang Rong smiles at him, “and here I thought you’d drowned in the shower.”

“…Colonel Yang,” Noah replies, slinging the stolen backpack behind his shoulders and also putting both hands in his pockets, matching wits, “heading out?”

“No, but it seems you are?” the other replies, the smile not fading on his lips.

“Absolutely not,” Noah says.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Yang Rong moves from position and beckons for him to follow, two fingers curling up in suggestion. “Little prisoner, let’s have a talk over dinner.”

“I would like to refuse,” he replies. Then he catches a mysterious glint in the man’s eyes, the dull hue of them edging danger, and he sighs in forfeit, knowing fully well he will be overpowered. “But I suppose it’s not an invitation, is it?”

Yang Rong softens his gaze and his aura, too – it’s not as oppressing and downright alarming. The pleased tone of his voice though, is no less controlling. “Good boy.”