chapter 8; dangerous

Dreams collides into reality whenever someone pushes Joonmyun a little too far, and he just ends up pressed up against something firm. Not a tent, for sure because there’s soft breathings, light snores and smells of lingering cologne that’s made from just clean water and the nearest plants in vicinity. Grumbles, he can hear, but he does nothing in effect except maybe just push over, do a double and just buries himself onto the other side, chest replicating pillow.

“Joonmyun,” Kyungsoo pries again, and he literally pries Joonmyun out of the “pillow”, which he soon realizes was Sehun’s chest once he manages to regain peripheral, random waves of color dotting through, trotting in a sort of wobbly pattern, centipedes in major shades. “Hyung, you have to wake up.” And the voice progresses from Kyungsoo’s quiet voice to something that sounds more urgent just as he keeps on talking, symphonies of words in cataphonic times. Four by four, consonants and longer sentences the more Joonmyun doesn’t reply. “Joonmyun, you have to wake up now! I think...Jongdae was his name? Well, something’s wrong with him and he needs you.”

That’s all it takes for Joonmyun to blink his eyes wide open, burning almost because it was just that abrupt with cool air automatically drifting in, dry eyes and sweaty palms and for some reason, clammy chests. He sees Kyungsoo, just standing at the edge of tent, hips swayed to the side and knees on the tent floors, jeans dirtied from something that looks like dried blood, probably old. Maybe an infectious attack from a few days ago whenever they were out and about.

“Get up,” Kyungsoo says, and he points towards the lone tree, where maybe in the distance one could see two figures lying by the trunks, roots sprouting out and just tangling over broken limbs, hollow bones, and blood that’s all too mainstream. Water, is it that rare?

Maybe it’s because he practically jumps out of the grip, but Joonmyun only manages to walk a few feet before a groan is heard, behind, right behind his legs where someone’s grabbing at it.

“Hyung, where are you going?” Sehun asks, and Joonmyun doesn’t turn back. Not until he hears another muffle, and a few rustles from the fabrics of materials dragging against the poking grasses.

“Come on, hurry up,” Kyungsoo urges, and it almost surprises Joonmyun because he’s never heard Kyungsoo become this persistent before. Then again, there’s never been a situation like this arised before.

So Joonmyun just lets go of the grip, digs the soles of his shoes, backward technique straight into the ground, and the hand releases with no hesitation. Sleepy is probably what Sehun is and Joonmyun doens’t want to bring him into this.  

Desolation in throats, derisive sun almost showing but just blocked by those stratus clouds that seem to just stretch over, canvases engulfed with cotton materials, tips in balls. Joonmyun feels cool air just pushing through, almost wants him to fall on back, lose balance, mock him for his intechniality as he’s running towards the trunk that Kyungsoo’s pointed towards. Footsteps slather against, almost languid and not staccato at all. Legato, almost-like but with house top accents with every dig of the sole, more dirt being dug up into his only pairs of vans, navy turned into black, white turned into muddy brown. Sepia, almost. The color of his hair.

Joonmyun arrives at the trunk a few seconds later, and the wheezing that occurs already makes it seem so evidential that something’s not right. Jongdae, golden hair that flows almost if it wasn’t for how red he is, how the rubies against his face looks so splattered like jagged paintbrushes on their wrong movements, accentuations against skin. The shrunken boy’s just heaving up and down, attacks on his chests and he just keeps on heaving, up and down, breathing in such a disorderly pattern. Inhale in a mere second, then exhale, in sips and just out pushes.

“Oh my god,” Joonmyun says to himself once he bends down to reach over to Jongdae, accompanied by Yixing, one arm still stacked in a self-cast--or just bandages that are all bloodied up, but there’s no point in changing them because the arm’s just dead. “Are you okay?” he asks, and maybe he feels a little stupid because it obviously doesn’t look like that.

Skies probably look black to Jongdae, but he wouldn’t know because the coughing is getting to his eyes, and everytime he looks back at Joonmyun, there’s redness. Blurriness, t-shirts bent in, flaps out and pales of abdomen barely visible. Hits of sixty-four degrees right on that patch of skin, and Jongdae wheezes on. He wears exhaustion, and his hair’s moist for some reason.

Joonmyun’s almost at a loss of words because he’s no doctor. So he just keeps on watching as Jongdae probably loses the life out of him, fatigue painting over. Reeling almost-like, sun over horizons though there’s no sun in presence ever since the beginning had broken out. Anarchy in the immunes, and Jongdae begins coughing, no blood but spit.

“Are you going to do something?!” Yixing asks, and Joonmyun turns, sees a disdainful look on the boy’s eyes, and he’s at another loss of words. Critical looks from Yixing, and Joonmyun almost shies down. “Hello?!”

“I, u-uh, what--”

“You’ve got to be ing kidding me,” Yixing says with hatred in his voice, coarsed vocals because he’s been so panicked. Joonmyun feels bad, but the casted boy wasn’t even done yet. “You call yourself a leader and you don’t even know what to do.” Attention turns towards Jongdae, and Yixing just peers in closer, almost holds him and just rocks him gently.

“U-uh,” Joonmyun stutters, and then there’s a few footsteps from behind him. He turns, and there’s Sehun, hair poking from the strays, fossilization of wide awakeness. Gradual stutters, and he almost falls. “Sehun.”

“Hyung, what’s going on?” Sehun groans, and he wipes his eyes. It burns, and he just stares off into the bright spherical object, no light emitting from but still burning his vision. He wonders if he’ll turn blind from this.

“Someone go get Kris,” Yixing says, and he’s even closer to Jongdae now, against the tree trunk and just holding him like there’s not going to be a tomorrow. Whenever no one moves, and there’s just sounds of coughs that are too painful to be considered a cough, he snaps. “Now! He’s going to ing die out here you morons!”

“I will,” Sehun chirps in, and he gets up, knees bends and cracks and almost pops but a hand holds him back. It’s Joonmyun.

“Wait--” Joonmyun interrupts, but then he’s interrupted. Constant naggings, and nothing being accomplished. A losing life, losing pride, and losing friendships.

“What do you mean wait?! Go, Sehun! Jongdae needs immediate attention now and this bastard’s  holding him back--”

“Um--”

And just when Joonmyun thought it couldn’t have gotten any worse.

“What’s going on?” A voice asks, and it’s just ironical because Sehun was just going to go fetch him. Cynical, almost.

“Kris,” Joonmyun mutters, and he turns to face the boy, short-hair already frazzled out and wetted with the remains of his water bottle. Six feet at the least, and he’s looking like always. Leather jacket, Los Angeles t-shirt underneath that he always wears, and skinny jeans that are of course, rattled and dried with crimson everywhere. Crimson, crimson, crimson. The new red. The water. Bloodied and all.

But then Kris sees what’s going on, the red-faced boy whose eyes almost bulge out, almost fall out and decapitates with stenches and noises of disastrous coughs. Tranquility cut right through. Dirt stirs up, and just flies through the air and Kris finally reaches Jongdae.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Kris asks, and Jongdae just shrugs, skin so limp and it just drags across the brown barks.

“Holy ,” Yixing yells, and he just points towards Kris with trembling fingers that agonize in something so betrayed. “What do you mean, ‘is he okay’?! He’s ing having an asthma attack and oh yeah, he just totally has his inhaler now, . Do something!”

Arm almost falls out of cast, stranded by the materials of a shirt and Yixing falls back, because Jongdae needs the whole trunk to lean for his back now.

“F-,” Jongdae manages to groan out, and it just looks so painful in the state he’s in. Almost looks like the marines, struggling for air outside of water. Like he’s somewhere that he’s not supposed to be. The dirt’s so unhealthy, and it just dusts up a storm and just drifts in like an old friend, ruins his immune system, and just leaves with a smug look. What an . The weakened boy hastily stumbles forward, and Yixing’s there to catch him.

“It’s this habitat we’re ing living in,” Yixing accuses, and it almost makes sense because when everyone turns around to look, it does look deemed for something too