On that day, Jackson learned that the sky was painted red. Cloudy red. Smoke red. Sunset red. Feather red.

Red. Feathers. Beautiful red feathers filled the air, drifting and dancing, and looking soft, so soft, so ethereal soft, like tingling breeze gliding through his face right now, like day-ended light withering out somewhere above the horizon. Gradually. Diminishingly. Like if he touched it, it would vanish into the same reddish sky behind. Into the air. Into nothingness.

And Jackson did just that. He wanted to touch those feathers of the painted sky. He wanted it so bad that he began to take several steps towards the verge of their shared cliff, which was actually his intention all along but left forgotten right at the very first scene he saw of the broken world. So bad that he forgot all the steps he should not take, all the chains, the rules, the four walls of white and darkness, the behaved, the for-a-better-future. Definitely for a better future - meant another day to live. Jackson should not, for his dear life, step any closer to the already crumbling edge, or even stay where he was any longer if he wanted that better future to realize itself for him. But the sudden urge was just too strong to fight. It made him remember something only to be forgotten right after, along with his sense, his rational thinking, and all he could feel that time was that he wanted it. He wanted to touch it, the red feathers, then the red pair of wings just slightly above. Then, the red boy.

Red-winged angels. Jackson had always read stories about them, thinking of one day he could finally meet the angel. Not any angel but the red-winged one who stood silently with his wing-covered back facing him, hands dropping and eyes staring nonchalantly into the sky, sometimes filled with dim sadness. He knew the day would come and he was thrilled to hug the winged one who was there waiting for him, to take loneliness away and to tell the angel that everything was okay. That it was absolutely okay to stop his heart and gather his soul, now that he was at the end of the road. He wanted it. He wanted to do it to the angel of death, unconsciously but unwaveringly.

Was it the time? Had it finally come when he reached the end of the road? Was he going to...

Jackson did not seem to care, neither did the boy seem to notice Jackson's footsteps on the cracking cliff. The whole mountain was falling into pieces behind his back, yet it felt like all the things was set in slow motion. Jackson held out his hand. Soft, calming feathers. Soft, assuring wings. Soft, saddening boy of red...

Suddenly the boy spread his wings out, and all Jackson could do was watching the boy take off in one swift move. Red feathers grazed his hand in a mere second, then the second after it was gone. Gone, into the sky. Strong winds washed his face, and then all was gone. The boy was gone, not once looking back.

One moment Jackson just stood there, then the other he did not. The ground had failed him, twitching and breaking and giving in under his foot, and Jackson fell. Yet sounds seemed deaf, and images seemed frozen. Were his ears failing him, or were his eyes failing him too? He thought they were, because the image of the red winged boy in his eyes did not seem to move along with his fall in any logical manner.

Before all went black, Jackson saw those red wings come closer, and he saw boy holding out a hand. To him.

...

When Jackson woke up, he found himself being wrapped in a pair of wings.

Like, literally wrapped. The wings acted as both Jackson's mattress and blanket, covered up his neck with large feathers stressed all the way down to his knees, hugging him all around in a firm but soothing manner. And warm, and fluffy, and all the things that made Jackson instinctively grow very fond of the feathery embrace. Soft feathers tickled his jaw line and neck, making him cuddle under his so-called blanket and snuggle up a little bit closer to the warmth source on his left side, eyes still closed, and sigh. He felt at ease.

More at ease than he had ever felt in how long he could not remember. Jackson let his mind drift somewhere in between the lands of lucid dream, somewhere along the rhythms of rise and fall, rising and then falling again. Rise and fall did the wings move; rise and fall did his chest go, comforting beats sneaked in under his skin rhythmically like it was so natural. Yeah, right, it was natural. Breathing was natural. Feeling others' heartbeat and warmth, and life, was natural, too. Being at ease under the sense of protection from other beings was, after all, very much natural. At least, for now.

At least for now, he can let himself be at ease.

As comfortable as the winged embrace had made him, however, his consciousness gradually returned to the surface. Which, starting with his pain. Jackson almost had his breath knocked out of his lung as a sharp pain shot through his head from behind his skull, and he grimaced, letting out a small groan and tightening his fist in hope to cease the head-cracking pain. Or maybe he really cracked his head open then? Jackson could not be sure at that moment when all his thoughts was still being subdued to the pain, but then when things were less cloudy, he could feel a kind of bandage wrapped tightly around his head. Okay, first thing first. So he did crack open his head, maybe alongside with his whole body in the process because it was aching like hell too. It had never been a surprise for Jackson the hyper to be in this state, more like a norm already, but then again no one would actually bandaged him in such a clumsy manner. Clumsy for real. Amidst the wave of pain flooding in his head in the past minutes, Jackson was sure that his neck was still intact as he had no trouble breathing as well as no painful feeling, so why would these bandages strangle all over his neck and also most of his face like some kind of mummy costume? Jackson brought his hand up and ran through the rough fabric, winced a little when his fingers touched the actual wound. He would be in no surprise if there was any bow-styled knot on his head, though he rather there was none.

It had always been the lab's nurses who treated his wounds, so of course there was no bow. There was no other than neatly tied bandages and precise stitches piercing through his skin, no other people who would made an instance torn-clothes-turning-to-bandages (one second to make sure his clothes was still there) and attend to his wounds in such haste. So was Jackson surprise when he noticed there really was a bow tied behind his head? Of course he would be surprise.

Someone was there. Someone.

Senses and memories crafted its way back to his mind, now that the pain had reduced to a bearable state. Jackson knew there was another person here besides himself. He had always known it since the time he woke up from his exhausted sleep, from burning hot forehead but freezing cold body, and from the soothing embrace of the other. Jackson noticed that his hand had been holding on a rough clothe, much less the same as those bandages on his head. A V-neck shirt, and a solid warmth for him to cling on. He also noticed a hand placing on his right arm, almost like a hug. And, of course, who could miss the wings? Jackson would admit, at first he thought those were really just blanket and mattress, as much as the wings' resemblance, but he knew his bed back in the lab too well, and now that his memories were back he knew it no longer existed. No, those were wings. Red wings, to be precise. Red wings from the boy of red.

At the thought, Jackson opened his eyes to a sleeping boy, still soundly walking in the land of dreams as Jackson felt the boy's calm breathe on his cheek. And the boy's face was close, so close. Normally Jackson would have jumped if there was someone whose face was that close to his own, or poked them, or pushed them to the point of neck-breaking and then made a scene with fake whines and stuffs. But for now he did not do any of these. He would come up with plenty of reasoning for his unusual composed self, first one being so obvious that he did not feel like jumping with a dear head-breaking pain still presented, nor did he see the necessary of scaring his living mattress off - so that Jackson himself would be thrown flat on the ground the second later. Right, Jackson thought for himself. He did not have the heart to wake up someone sleeping so peacefully either.

The boy's face was calm. Like the silencing atmosphere he created in between his wings, with his closed eyes, deep breathes and slightly moving figure. At some point or another, Jackson caught himself staring, constantly and almost as calmly at the other whose face was merely an inch above him, locks of red bang hung loosely, brushing the boy's cheekbone and almost covering the other side of his face. His skin was pale and translucent, his eyelashes were laying still. Silently still. Even his flaming redhead, even his heart beat, even his overwhelming appearance the first time Jackson saw him, and even his warmth, were still. Like everything about this sleeping boy was painted in a soothing silence.

Somehow, it made a real good explanation for Jackson's strange calmness, too.

It was indeed, strange. Not because Jackson was Jackson but in consideration of how Jackson should feel, how anyone should feel, when their world was burning down to pieces. And he meant it, literally. Jackson's head ached. He moved his gaze a bit, so that he could see pass the boy's wings and into whatever surroundings they were in, which he supposed would not be so pleasing to look at. The boy surely knew, considering he was most probably who took Jackson here after the cliff fell apart. Jackson wonder how he actually felt to sleep so soundly, worry-free like that.

Not that Jackson minded. If he did give any thought, then it was an assuring one. That was why he tried not to wake this remaining peaceful piece of life while struggling his way out of the boy's winged embrace. Well, not an easy task to be honest. The wings proved to be much heavier to lift up, so did Jackson's body. Were there some gravity controllers putting a mountain's weight onto his limbs and chest? Hell yes, because Jackson felt like giving up on ordering his body around already. Why did his body feel so lifeless? And hurt? Like every slightest move he made, his body would be torn apart again.

Ah, yeah. The devastated way he had crawled up to that cliff. The destructive earthquake. The death, and the doom. Jackson's head ached again.

"Stay down."

A deep voice caught Jackson's mind, slowly dragged him back to the present. It was not until a few seconds after did Jackson turn his head back and notice, not a pair of dark brown eyes looking at him straightforwardly as he had imagined the scene to be, but the same sleeping face like he was not the one who spoke just seconds ago. For one moment Jackson spent on checking whether there was another person staying this close to him at that time, and after making sure there was none (no talking worms or any of their kinds either), he started to wonder when the boy had woke up, or if he had any sleep at all. He decided to leave the matter - it was lucky enough for him that the boy didn't open his eyes when Jackson was staring at him like an alien. Or like he did, right here, right now.

"You're still having a fever." The boy spoke again, this time with clearer intention in his voice. Maybe he took Jackson's dumb silence as a sign of inability to understand those two words he let out before, which Jackson did not understand very well but still felt quite offended. At least now he knew for sure that it was this boy who spoke: his lips were moving in a very laid-back manner. "And you've lost lots of blood. So stay down."

"Are you awake?"

"No."

"Why are you talking then?" He chuckled.

"To tell you your conditions, which you seem to pay no attention at all."

"Care to tell me your name anyway?"

"Not one bit."

"My name is Jackson Wang." He held out his hand, which was not really that greeting thing because they were staying so close together. Blood lost? No wonder why his body felt so cold and weary - but then the other was right, Jackson paid no mind to it. He took Mr. Not-One-Bit's hand anyways, shaking it with little force he could muster. Then he saw the boy, with a soft sigh, finally look up. His eyes opened.

Deep, dark brown eyes.

"Mark."

They were indeed warm, just like his hand: cold to the touch at first, but actually soft and gentle. Jackson smiled widely. After all, this red winged boy was really his savior.

...

Mark was quiet. Like, really quiet. Like, the most quiet one Jackson had ever seen in more than two decades, which meant his entire life up to this point. And because Jackson was not so sure he would meet anyone other than Mark in this world now that it was destroyed to the core so, yeah, Mark Tuan is the world's most quiet person.

Four days after that little conversation, Jackson had tried tirelessly to get Mark to talk more, throwing questions at him or commenting on unrelated matters, all of it was to no avail. Jackson wondered if anyone had actually told Mark that ignoring a loving and caring friend like him (he had officially established their friendship right at their second conversation - or more like Jackson's monologue) was soooooo rude and so mean and inconsiderate and impolite. Jackson even spent their third day complaining about how hurt he felt, which gained him a "Shut up" from an annoyed Mark. And that reply was really counted as a gain to Jackson, considering how loudly he cheered at that.

However, it was not that Mark didn't talk to him at all. Mark did speak. He spoke, replied, told stories (those kind of two-worded stories), and talked to Jackson from time to time; even when he did not, his silence wasn't by any means being ignorant. Mark was just... quiet. Jackson knew that, like how Mark knew Jackson was loud - loud enough for both of them, and loud enough to make up for the world's silence.

Aside from speaking and getting Mark to speak, Jackson had already set to journey his way back to the lab's basement. Mark just went with him, quietly. So by the end of their third day, they were both walking through some deserted cities Jackson knew he was not going to recognize. Not even when these cities were still in one piece could Jackson tell which building was which, so it only made sense when he couldn't do it now either. His memory or navigation skill was not the problem - oh it never was - but it would be unfair to expect Jackson to recognize somewhere he had never seen before the breakdown of the world. One thing he did know, was that this city was located right under the mountain inside which their lab took place before, from where Jackson and Mark escaped. About five miles on the north side, across a downstream river with flowers taking over the banks, and a green, refreshing green grassland covering their path. At least Mark told him that much. Yet it was not until the following afternoon did Jackson see the actual river with his own eyes, floral banks long gone, replaced with rough rocks and giant fractures. Green replaced by gray, and lives replaced by dirt.

"It was once beautiful right?" Jackson asked, trying to bring a bit liveliness into his voice. Mysteriously, he failed. He blamed it on the wind. "You said."

"Yeah."

Downhill wind, cold and musky, carried along the blurring breath of a red afternoon, brushed through his senses in a low whisper. He heard Mark's wings flutter. From the shallow river's stream, torn and mixed with rocks and an unsteady bed, Jackson saw Mark took off a little bit; his wings quietly caressed the sky, leaving beautiful lines of red flows on his reflection. Glittering red flows made glittering sunset flows. Although it was red throughout the day, Jackson soon learned that morning sky and sunset sky gave out two different shades of red, due to the amount of midst, of cloudy surface and of dust level, and the sky would always be just a little bit clearer, hence redder, when its sun went down at the end of day. Mark's wings, too, had a distinct shade of red. And it was always glittering.

"Yeah, it was."

Before Mark landed beside him, this time stood nearer than just now, Jackson rushed to take in the image of a red flowing river. He didn't know whether it was for Mark to recall his own old memories, or if it was perhaps Mark's way to share those memories with Jackson, because of the shattered image Mark had drawn for him, because of the turning-out-to-be-different story Mark had made his mind wander. Because it was Mark's rare words, and Mark kept his words. Mark had already kept his words for bringing Jackson back here, although he knew better than Jackson that there wasn't anything left of the lab. Of the place they were both held 206 meters under the mountainous ground, far from any other human's eyes; the place they had left behind while escaping their fate of being buried along, running from 206 meters underground all the way back to the other side of the world, or in Jackson's case, to a new world he knew nothing about. Of the place which in one way or another was once their shared shelter and home, Mark's for most of his childhood and Jackson's for his entire life. So now that Jackson knew how the river behind his house looked like, and just like Mark had told him: under the sunset's last ray of light, shining brightly, beautifully it was.

"Say, was it also at sunset when they brought you here Yi En? Was the sky also red?"

"No. It was... blue, back then."

"So how do you know how the river looks like in sunset?"

"My previous house was also by a river."

Mark answered, calmly and quietly. Four days and Jackson had already gotten used to this deep tone, like they had been friends for life. Maybe they really had. Maybe they had always been together. Mark didn't ask how Jackson knew about his other name, and neither did Jackson ask why the other boy went back down to save him in such a dangerous landslide at their first meet. Because they both knew why. Back in the lab, between their four whitest walls, friends were only known by names.

Mark Yi En Tuan, the flying boy, 19. Mutant - Red wings that can strongly spread from his back and withdraw freely. Sold in at the age of 9.

Jackson Wang Ka Yee, the hyper troublemaker, 18. Mutant - Power yet to be revealed. Orphan, raised in from birth.

Located at the Southern Gate, China Base.

Names by names, voices by voices, heard rarely from their staffs' toneless discussions. Jackson had a real good memory, and a real big collection of names he stored in the furthest corner of his mind, hidden from all his longing which sometimes presented on his face, so that it would be safe, happy and untainted. Occasionally he would be able to hear faint voices from the other side of his walls, children voices, but it was only once in a while and even more so rarely could he receive a response when he actually called out. He figured it must be due to his tiredness that his ears could not work perfectly. Still, Jackson kept for himself all the things he had been given, and cherished them inside his little room. The white room with two-story bed (he wondered why), a closet filled with small papers and a desk full of unused childhood clothes, had been his own kingdom - as the lab had been his home. His only home - no matter what kind of home it was, because Jackson had never known any other home.

Now it was truly gone.

That night, Mark and Jackson made a camp out of broken tree logs on the river bank, opposite the path that led to their lab's basement. Mark had told him that much, too; and even though Jackson knew not about how the mountain above their lab used to look like, but he recognized the flaming red scene he had seen in that brief moment when he finally stood on the ground, bathed in daylight, looking up the sky through a pair of soaring wings, wings that were strong and unchained, wings that of the boy whose name he had stored away in his memory box. Wings of Mark. So when the cloud changed its shade to a sunset red, Jackson, with his annoying aegyo to add on the persuading effect, asked Mark to bring out his wings once more, on the ground, and for Mark to take off just so his gaze could follow those wings up to the sky. Then down the broken cliff, then, the mountain - the remains of their lab's mountain. He saw the largest, widest fracture of earth craved into it, and he saw his room. Jackson knew exactly where it was located even though his navigation skill was as poor as an ant losing its directing scent, and his mind was in such a mess when he crawled his way out of the lab for the first time, but he knew that across the river, 206 meters under the ground and 34 degree to the left from where he was standing, that was once Jackson's kingdom - now replaced by a dark, silent hole.

Mark didn't say anything, as usual, but brought back a gravel from his flight - a really weird looking one. Jackson laughed about how the gravel looked like baby poops to him, but then he secretly hid it inside his jacket's inner pocket. He secretly appreciated the way Mark answered all of his questions with clear effort of lengthening those responses too, and sometimes during that night on the river bank, the older even started some clumsy talking when Jackson fell quiet. Clumsy like hell - like his bandaging skills. Jackson laughed off those clumsiness, anyways, so Mark's communicating skill was not that bad. Not bad, at all.

"Hey Markie, where do you want to go next?"

When red changed to black, and silence finally took over the night, Jackson had finally been able to ask the question - alongside with the third nickname he could come up for Mark. The older looked up from their makeshift bed - his wings, again, because for God's sake it was so damn cold at night - and let his gaze stay with Jackson's for a brief second. He knew from the younger's wholehearted smiling eyes that Jackson truly meant it - that Jackson finally decided to say goodbye to the past, and go. Go with Mark.

There weren't much things left in the world, anyways. That last firestorm had destroyed most of all, Mark's cage, Jackson's home, the world that they had just stepped back in, along side with the people who once driven them out of that world. No lab, no friends' name to be heard, no staffs to listen to, no normal human. Four days in the world and they had known that much. They also knew that in their picture of the world, from now on, they would be the remaining pieces for each other.

"I have something to find." Mark finally answered, his voice echoed into the night. Jackson raised an eyebrow. From Mark's clear and determined voice he knew that the older was absolutely sure about this, maybe even more determined than keeping himself alive, and so Jackson's face quickly lifted up to a new kind of merry, a new kind of excitement. Surely he was excited to have some goal for his life now (borrowed from Mark). And a new journey (led by Mark, too). And something to find, something, in this ending world.

"Oh? What's that?"

"My little brother."

"You have one? And first you don't call your brother 'something', Markie. I almost mistook him for a teddy bear you know." Jackson faked a serious face. When he received no response from Mark other than a I-don't-have-any-teddy-bear glare, he wisely took the privilege to continue their bed time conversation. "What's his name?"

"Yugyeom."

"Where's he now?"

Mark didn't answer, letting the night fall back to silence as he gathered his arms a little bit, wings fold, mind closed. Jackson took it as a sign of their really really long-term goal. He did not recognize the name, nor did he want to push Mark any further when he heard a hint of struggled sadness mingled in the other's voice. Things would happen when times came. For now, he prefer silence.

At some point of the night, Jackson moved closer to Mark, a hand flung out to hold the older casually. At some point of the night, Mark's breath deepened gradually, and the shiver stopped haunting their shoulders.

.

"Because he's so quiet, I can sleep well."

.