2

The train rocked like a ship on tumultuous waters, and Minho's stomach sank as the car teetered dangerously to one side. He saw the stranger doubled over in pain, hands clapped over his ears. They were probably ringing just as badly as Minho's was—the explosion was close, far too close. He snatched him by the waist and dragged him against the wall that threatened to become the floor, trying to reduce the distance they'd fall as the wood and metal bent around him. Crates and barrels began to slide and gather as if on a ramp. Without knowing why, Minho tucked the stranger against his chest and braced himself to take the brunt of the impact. He couldn't hear a damn thing other than that god awful high-pitched whine.

Another explosion rang out and the train was thrown from the tracks like a child's toy in the hand of a giant. A flash of heat scorched Minho's neck as he was tossed forward with the stranger held in his arms. His head thudded against something solid and he fought to keep consciousness as smoke filled his lungs. He coughed: His tongue was dusty. He knew he was bleeding, and everything ached, and he may have broken a rib or two in the tumble.

"Are you okay?" he forced out of his hoarse throat. He was cradling the back of the stranger's head, trying to prevent a cracked skull. His fingers were sticky and covered in crimson, and he laid him in his lap to examine him closer. Again, he asked, "Are you fine? Are you okay?" but knew he wouldn't receive an answer. The stranger was as limp as a well-loved rag doll.

"," swore Minho. He leaned forward, pressing his head against the stranger's chest to listen for a heartbeat, but his ears were too full of that accursed ringing from the force of the blast to make anything out. Instead, he studied his chest as well as he could in the pooling smoke, waiting to watch it rise and fall. He held two fingers under his nose as well, hoping to feel some sign of life from his nostrils.

He was breathing, Minho was relieved to discover. It was shallow, but he was breathing.

Minho found a place to lay him where he wouldn't be in any danger of shifting cargo or wreckage of the carriage itself. Light poured in from the splintered planks of the floor, slanting now at a strange incline. He hoped the explosion would have crafted a makeshift entrance, but he wasn't so lucky. Instead, he moved to the door he came in which hung now at an awkward angle. The explosion had it jammed in its frame, and the shattered glass window wasn't wide enough for even a child to pass through. With his shoulder, he rammed into the door over and over, forcing it open in increments. He tried to ignore that it was getting harder to breathe, that this train car would be nothing more than an oven full of kindling if he didn't get out soon.

The door abandoned its last resolve and shuddered in its hinges, then finally collapsed outwards and slammed against the exterior of the train car. He craned his head outside, trying to survey what he could of the current situation, but his visibility was impeded. The air was thick with smoke, but the distinct scent of gunpowder punched his nostrils.

With his hand on the door frame, he peered back at the stranger cradled in the wreckage, blood staining his cheeks and clothes. A voice itched at the back of his brain telling him to do what he has always done, to take care of himself and only himself, but he couldn’t listen to it.

He saved his life. That had to be worth something. He’d get him out of the train car and plop him down some place where he wasn’t at risk of becoming human barbecue, and then they’d be even. Minho couldn’t stand owing anybody anything, especially a stranger like this.

Daring to traverse the treacherous length of the carriage once more, Minho caught the man under the arms, hoisted him to his feet, and then arranged his limp body over his shoulders. He was lighter than Minho expected, thin and lithe underneath his ostentatious violet outfit. The calluses on his palms and fingers were a shock—this man seemed like the kind to drape himself on a couch and moan at his probable legion of servants to fetch him things all day. These were the hands of a manual laborer.

Minho didn't waste any more time as he hurried back towards the door. With each step, the strangely smooth fabric of his shirt brushed against Minho's blood and ash coated cheek. For a moment, he forgot the flames and gunfire and let himself be anxious about a potential stain.

It wouldn't have been an easy feat for Minho himself to climb out through that misshapen doorway, and it was markedly more of a challenge when he was wearing an unconscious body as a scarf. Still, he somehow managed. He already ached too much to feel the splinters pierce through his clothes when his leg got caught on the exit. He stumbled and the fabric ripped, but he couldn't hear it, and the fresh blood that poured from those new wounds was indistinguishable to the old. On the gravel that