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There is nothing on the horizon.
The desert stretches onward, vast, barren, endless. There is sand for miless. Except it isn't really sand. It's ash, a thin, infectious coating dusted atop cracked cement and razed asphalt. If you dig deep enough, you can feel the concrete, or what remains of it.
It wasn't always like this. Juhoon has heard stories of the world before, of sprawling cities and gargantuan buildings stretching tall as if reaching for the gods. He's seen paintings, conjured from the memories of those old enough to remember the old world, and yet, staring out at the great expanse of desolation before him, he finds it hard to truly believe there was ever something before.
He keeps walking.
His legs are sore, every muscle in his body protesting, but it's either walk or die, and Juhoon is far too stubborn to let nature win.
Quiet footsetps thud behind him, muffled by the ash. He turns around to face his companion: a tall young man with shaggy brown hair that fades into blond, hazel eyes still sparkling despite the less-than-ideal circumstances. He's dressed in the same clothes as Juhoon—loose garments of scavenged linen and cotton, breathable enough to survive the desert heat without exposing their skin to the sun's scorching rays. The boy fiddles with his makeshift hood as a cool breeze sets it askew,. At his disgruntled expression, Juhoon holds back a smile.
"Martin," he calls,, his voice carrying across the air easily, slipping into a familiar, teasing lilt. Martin looks over, jogging to catch up.
"Yeah? What's up?"
"Nothing. Just keep up." Juhoon elbows him lightly. They continue walking, and Juhoon lets himself watch Martin. The two are far from strangers. Raised in the same stronghold, they learned to survive together. As long as Juhoon has known himself, he's known Martin. Maybe even longer. There is something in him that has always been helplessly, stubbornly drawn to Martin's side. No matter what he does or where he goes, he is led back to home him.
Juhoon has always thought the boy glowed, and right now, he's proved right. The sun illuminates his profile, the smooth features of his face, the gold threaded through his irises, but more than that, there's something inside Martin that seems to shine brighter than any sun or star.
He wonders how, even when stuck in a desert in the middle of a dying world, Martin manages to smile. Any sane person would become cynical and withdrawn—Juhoon certainly did. But Martin, somehow, laughs. He finds joy in everything, no matter how hard everything around him tries to beat him down. Juhoon, in a way, is envious. Not of Martin, but of the world which gets to be on the recieving end of the smile that has stubbornly etched itself into every corner of Juhoon's mind.
—
It is nightfall when, miraculously, they happen upon an what might have once been an oasis. Although the water is near-dired and the trees are more husks than anything, there is rubble that vaguely resembles a shack, and that's a better shelter than nothing.
They get to work quickly. Juhoon starts a fire, collecting what water he can find for their canteens, while Martin drapes a tarp over the two sturdiest columns of the rubble to create a makeshift tent. They share dried meat and fruit under the stars, watching the firesmoke disappear into the night.
By now, it's cool enough that they can remove their outer layers. Juhoon stretches, finally granted full mobility after a day spent walking and weighed down by packs of supplies and layers of protective clothing. The hem of his shirt rides up slightly as he does, and he sees Martin rapidly avert his eyes. The sight is amusing, put plainly. There's something almost cute about Martin's flustered state, and Juhoon has to tamp down the urge to tease him about it.
Instead, he drags his thin bedspread out under the stars, lying on his back to stare at the sky. Martin does the same, lying on the other side of the now-smoldering campfire. The sound of the breeze is punctuated only by their breathing. Then, Martin speaks.
"Jju," he starts, the nickname soft on his tongue, "do you ever wonder what it was like before?"
Juhoon lets the question linger, eyes fixed on the sky as he finds his words. "I guess," he shrugs. "But sometimes I wonder if there even was a before."
"So you think everyone was lying?" Martin laughs incredulously, his smile audible.
"No," Juhoon retorts almost immediately. "I just…can you really imagine this," he gestures to the desert around them, "really being alive?"
Martin hums thoughtfully, and there's a rustling of fabric as he shifts. Juhoon does the same, so they're both lying on their sides, facing each other. "I can't," he admits, finally. "But isn't that the point? Life doesn't always make sense," Martin shrugs. "It just…is."
His eyes glow in the dying firelight, boring through Juhoon and rendering him wordless. There is amber, he realizes, in those eyes. How did he never notice? Amber, emerald, copper, gold. Cobalt, vermillion, violet, silver. The colors dance like flames, almost hypnotic in their movements, and Juhoon is a moth, drawn in and engulfed all at once.
Martin is speaking—he knows that much, tracking the movements of the other's lips, but what he is saying is lost on Juhoon. His mind is filled with color, with flame, with want. He wants Martin. He wants to devour him, to consume and be consumed and to be not two beings but one.
Perhaps he is delirious, perhaps he is hallucinating, or perhaps his mind has finally caught up to his soul. But does it really matter which? All Juhoon knows is this aching, desperate hunger. All he knows is Martin.
"Jju?" His senses snap back into place, the hunger not vanished but lurking. Martin looks worried. "You okay?"
"Martin." Juhoon's voice is lower than usual, slightly raspy from dehydration. He doesn't notice the way Martin's face reddens slightly, still focused on his eyes. "Come here."
Martin follows the command wordlessly. He always listens whenever Juhoon asks him for something, almost like an obedient puppy. It's cute.
He takes a few tentative steps close, crouching next to where Juhoon is lying down.
"Wh—" Before Martin can even get a word out, Juhoon has pulled him down, crashing their lips together in more of a statement than a kiss. He isn't disappointed as Martin responds almost as eagerly, kissing him back with the enthusiasm of someone who has just as many repressed desires.
Juhoon smiles, just enough that he knows Martin feels it, and deepens the kiss. Martin gasps—barely, but Juhoon catches the way the other boy exhales against his mouth and relishes the feeling of swallowing the breath. One hand clutches Martin's neck, thumb tracing his jawline, while the other is anchored at his waist. He's aware that he's not very gentle. That he kisses like he's fighting. The least of his worries, though, is thinking. Not when he has Martin in his hands and the wind in his hair.
There is a moment when they part for air, and Juhoon's head is cleared just enough to make a split-second, probably irrational decision, and maneuver them so Martin is lying against the sand, with Juhoon's legs on either side of his hips, and as little space between them as possible. Privately, Juhoon relishes the way Martin is so pliant under him, the way the younger stares at him with something akin to devotion; all red-faced, mussed, and breathless. He thinks that he is drunk on the sound of his voice, the way his heartbeat stutters under his touch, the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the utter adoration in his eyes. Juhoon is lightheaded, hazy, and hopelessly addicted to the music that is Martin's very existence. And he has never been good with words, so the only thing he can do is write it out with his lips and hope Martin understands.
Tomorrow, they might die in this desert. They might not even live to see tomorrow. But right now, Juhoon has never felt more alive.