🌨️　↳ the port

@altair song caspian doesn’t register the first punch. not properly, anyway. his world is already tilted at an angle, a distorted blur of sound and sensation, muffled beneath the weight of alcohol, the spinning of his thoughts, and the adrenaline that’s starting to surge through his veins. the haze is thick, a fog that clouds his every move, every breath. but then the moment shifts—like the quiet stillness of the air before a storm breaks, charged and dangerous—and suddenly, everything is motion.

the sharp crack of bone against flesh slices through the warehouse like a gunshot, a sound so loud, so raw, it snaps him out of his daze. his head jerks up just in time to see altair’s fist connect with a face—he’s not sure whose, not with the chaos already unfolding, bodies colliding like dominoes around them. the blood on altair’s knuckles is immediate, a stark, vicious red that’s impossible to miss.

and then everything erupts.

caspian barely has time to process the shift before he’s yanked, shoved, the crush of bodies around him turning suffocating. he staggers, the world tilting dangerously as someone’s elbow crashes into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. he gasps, trying to orient himself, but the warehouse has morphed into a frenzy—a blur of limbs, flying fists, curses shouted into the thick air. it’s chaos. a mess of sound and fury, all of it too loud, too fast.

his vision sharpens just enough for him to see altair take a hit—he watches the way altair’s body twists with the impact, the flicker of pain that flashes across his features before it’s swallowed by something darker, something colder. another punch lands, another bone-shaking crack, and then altair is gone—lost, swallowed by the tide of fists and snarled curses. he’s no longer in view, nothing but a fleeting image in the whirlpool of violence.

a spike of panic shoots through caspian’s chest. he can feel the panic settle in, tight and suffocating, clawing at his lungs.

he turns, desperate to push forward, desperate to reach him, but the press of bodies is relentless. it’s a wall. he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think—he’s lost in the madness, his thoughts too slow, his body too uncoordinated. his instincts scream at him to move, to fight through the crush, but before he can, someone collides with him—hard—and knocks the air out of his chest. he gasps, staggering, but before he can even regain his balance, someone else shoves him, sending him careening in the opposite direction.

a hand grabs him, yanking him out of the chaos. the grip is firm, unyielding, and just like that, the crushing weight of the fight is lifted. his feet struggle to keep up, his mind reeling as he’s dragged away from the madness. he’s dizzy, sweaty, hair clinging to his forehead, and there’s an overwhelming, gnawing sense of worry that tightens his chest. but he knows this grip—he knows the familiar feel of the inked fingers around his wrist.

altair.

a lifeline.

altair drags him through the last of the crowd, the sounds of the chaos inside fading behind them as they burst through the warehouse doors and stumble into the cold night air. it’s a brutal shock, the air biting into his overheated skin. he inhales sharply, the cold sinking into his bones, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the warehouse. but it does nothing to clear his head. his breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, chest heaving with the aftershocks of the adrenaline and the panic that still clings to him.

the world outside feels too big. too open. he can still hear the distant roar of the crowd, the pounding bass from the warehouse echoing in the distance, but here—here, it’s just too much space, too much silence. he blinks, trying to focus, but his vision swims, blurry at the edges, his mind struggling to catch up with what’s just happened.

there’s a flickering streetlamp nearby, its weak light casting altair in uneven shadows, and caspian barely registers the fact that he’s gripping the older man’s shirt like a lifeline, his fingers tangled in the fabric, knuckles white from the pressure.

“in’ bastard,” altair mutters, his voice a low growl, edged with something dangerous, “thinkin’ the sun comes up just to hear him crow… oughta cut off his in’ tongue along with the fingers. hell.”

caspian doesn’t respond. he can’t. his ears are still ringing, his body trembling from the aftershock of it all. his skin feels clammy with sweat, his chest tight with the remnants of panic. he feels wrung out, every nerve buzzing, his thoughts a blur. but his mind—his mind is on fire.

altair had fought for him. altair had bled for him.

the thought churns through caspian’s mind, twisting something deep inside him. it shouldn’t make his stomach twist like this, shouldn’t make heat curl through his veins, especially when he’s barely steady on his feet. but the image of altair—fists swinging, all sharp edges and brutal efficiency—fighting for him has carved itself into his brain. he sways where he stands, sweat trickling down his back, fingers gripping the edge of the bench as if the only thing grounding him is the presence of altair beside him.

“i’m so ing stupid,” caspian mutters under his breath, voice thick with exhaustion, frustration, and something darker—something dangerously close to shame. his fingers tighten against the bench, nails digging into the wood. “i should’ve known. i—, i should’ve known better.”

his throat feels raw, whether from the drugs, from the chaos, or from the emotions clawing their way to the surface, he isn’t sure. but then altair is there, crouching in front of him, checking him over with those sharp, dark eyes—so ing present, so grounded in a way that makes caspian’s chest ache.

he should be thinking about how close he came to something worse, how easily he could have been lost in that ing warehouse with no way out. but instead, all he can think about is altair—standing between him and danger, fists bloodied for his sake.

his laugh is shaky, breathless. he drags a hand down his face, trying to steady himself, but it only makes him more aware of the heat lingering beneath his skin, the sweat soaking his shirt. his hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, his chest still heaving, and the weight of everything that’s happened presses down on him like a physical thing.

“you didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice quieter now, softer. but god, he’s glad altair did. he doesn’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t.

his head turns, just enough. altair is close—closer than he probably should be, but not close enough. not for caspian.

his eyes trace over him in the dim glow of the streetlamp—sees the split knuckles, the scrape of red against bruised skin, the way they flex and tremble before going still. he sees the cut at altair’s mouth, a thin line of red smudged against his lower lip, the dark bloom of something worse at his cheekbone, shadowed and deepening.

caspian stares, his own fingers twitching at the sight, wanting—needing—to touch, to do something, anything, to make it better. but instead, without thinking, he reaches out.

his hand finds altair’s wrist, fingertips grazing over bruised knuckles, tracing along the cut at his hand with a touch that’s featherlight, reverent. altair doesn’t pull away.

caspian doesn’t know if he’s imagining the way altair’s fingers tense beneath his own, the way his breath seems to stall for half a second before evening out again. but it doesn’t matter.

what matters is this—this small, fragile tether between them, something warm in the cold night air, something that belongs to them alone.

his thumb brushes over the scrape at altair’s hand again, slower this time, his own fingers stilling.

“you got hurt,” caspian murmurs, voice quieter, but no less intent. his heart pounds in his chest. “because of me.”

a beat of silence hangs between them, thick with unspoken words, with something fragile, something uncertain. but caspian doesn’t drop his hold. doesn’t move away.

he should. but he doesn’t.

instead, his fingers tighten just slightly, grounding himself in the warmth of altair’s skin, in the steady, solid presence of the man who had torn through the night for him. the man who had come for him. the man who had stayed.

caspian exhales again, softer this time.

“…thank you,” he whispers.

and this time, when he looks at altair, really looks at him, he doesn’t feel like he’s unraveling anymore. he feels something different—a fragile hope, something tentative, something that might just be enough to hold him steady.

@caspian jeon [ tw : vague descriptions of violence ]


for a moment, the thoughts that fill altair's mind are come with a feeling of shame.

because, the truth is — caspian is beautiful like this. with his cheeks flushed and his eyes glassy and unfocused, those lips parted around his name like rose petals. in any other circumstance, he would allow his mind to wander towards thoughts of a wholly different nature, could imagine the breathlessness being caused by him.

the thoughts come quickly and pass even faster, but the mild feeling of shame remains behind. they are intrusive, which is their only redeeming quality, but altair allows himself no time to realise that. his desire to be a good person even within his own mind is unimportant when faced with the reality of the moment, so he simply swallows the bile and focuses.

the unwelcome arms slotting around the trembling body of the brit certainly helps with the focus.

"sorry, pal, don'reckon i was talkin' to ya, was i? was tryna' steal my good friend here for a dance," he throws out towards the guy, his voice still friendly, though just a tad too. there is an edge to the drawl of his accent — not quite a threat, not nearly yet, but a quiet warning. close to it.

the tug he gives caspian is a gentle one, unwilling to hurt the distraught soul further, but they both barely budge. altair's eyes flicker to smarmy hands pushing against sweat-slick skin with too much force for his liking — ( any amount of force would be too much, a quiet voice speaks at the back of his mind ) — and his smile falters for just a moment, facade cracking.

"...right, ah'suggest you-"

he does not get to finish his sentence before the possessive hands are pulling away caspian away from him again, slippery fingers tugging on the flimsy fabric of his shirt as they are torn away from him. the other's face, so lost and unfocused, does not even leave room for the idea that this is what he wants. altair's sure that if he looked hard enough, he would be able to find something close to panic.

and that just cannot be it, can it?

"i got it, buddy. we have been having so much fun all night, you can have your turn sometime else," the stranger answers — interrupts, more like — turning in a way that pushes himself partially between altair and caspian. "he still owes us some time together for bringing him here."

altair's eyes flicker between the dude speaking and the other people in the small group, just taking in, considering. none of them truly looks like they belong, all of them covered in a thin layer of metaphorical grime, as if behind a veil. a younger him would have sneered and thrown out the term 'poser'.

now, at thirty-four, he knows that as far as p-words go, predator would be more fitting.

instead of answering, he takes half a step to the left, tries to step around the guy and back towards the center of his focus — though he does not get too far. not when a hand he frankly does not want to be touched by presses up against his clavicle in an attempt to hold him back, causing the chain of his necklace to dig into his overheated skin. altair's dark gaze flicker from the palm towards the visage of the offender, the smile finally disappearing from his lips.

he's not exactly proud of what comes next.

( a lie. )

exhaling sharply, he glances up at the slightly taller man, the bass and drums thumping in his ears. not a single thought that goes further than this moment passes through his mind — even if later he'll second-guess acting like this infront of caspian, no matter how intoxicated — no consideriation for the future or the consequences. his left hand adjusts the rings on his right, making sure they do not sit on his knuckles, barely a few seconds of double checking before the right hand raises, fingers curling against his palm, thumb over them.

and he punches.

he's a little off-target but the crunch of a nose beneath his fist is still completely and utterly satisfying, the blood immediately staining his inked skin a scarlet addition.

it would be nice to say that it all ends with him as the obvious winner atop a pile of his enemies beaten blue and bloody, him without a scratch and the object of his affections safe within his arms like a pretty damsel. but this is not a movie and reality is impractical, winning not what he's after. no, what follows is mayhem, pure and simple.

— a single punch thrown by him is followed by multiple hands on him. an elbow to his cheekbone returned by him making use of his knee. fingers pushed into his ribs, clumsy with drugs and alcohol. the momentum ripples out from the group like a tidal wave, causing mayhem within the old warehouse, bodies pushing and tearing and slamming into each other. and that is exactly what he's hoped for, the eternal promise of a bunch of punks looking for a way to let out their energy and frustration, a fight watered down until the edges of the crowd only see yet another moshpit.

it would be easy to get lost in the chaos. altair is sure that this is exactly what would happen were it not for his choice to remain absolutely sober that night. instead he, by some ing miracle he dares not to question, manages to push the slicker into the crowd with a shove of his shoulder and, like a moth to a flame, presses up close towards caspian once more.

"c'mon, 'fore the er throws another hissy," he shouts over the mess he has caused, bloody hands curling around the tall figure with a gentleness he would have not been capable of mere seconds ago. practiced as he is, he sticks to the edges, him between the crowd and his precious cargo as he pushes and pulls towards the nearest exit.

it takes longer than it should, reaching the cold night air, and by the time they do his ears are ringing and altair has become vaguelly aware of a dull pain across his cheekbone and the right side of his ribs. no time for that, though, not when he's busy pushing caspian onto the nearest worn out bench to start checking over the brit with the help of a flickering streetlamp nearby.

"in' bastard, thinkin' the sun comes up jus'to hear him crow. oughta t'cut off his in' tongue along with the fingers, hell," he mutters to himself, barely audible. and then, a little louder, a whole lot gentler, directed at the lost lamb. "are y'alright, darlin'? hurt anywhere?"

@altair song [ i'm so sorry. it's so long. i knew i would get carried away. sobbing. please don't feel the need to match, anything from you is golden ]

[ trigger warning: being drugged ]

caspian isn’t sure when the night started to turn.

at first, it had been tolerable—uncomfortable, yes, but manageable. he’d been invited, after all, and the rational part of him had whispered that it would be rude to refuse. he needed friends in this town, needed to put himself out there, even if this wasn’t quite his scene. the warehouse was suffocating, packed wall to wall with bodies moving to music that rattled his teeth, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and something sharper, more illicit. but he endured, drink in hand, plastering on that charming, easy smile he’d perfected over the years.

then came the offers. pills passed between fingers, powder lining the edge of a stranger’s knuckles, grins too wide, too knowing. just a little something to take the edge off, mate. everyone’s doing it.

“not really my thing,” caspian had said smoothly, stepping back, but the refusal hadn’t been enough. they’d laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, pressed another drink into his palm. just try it. live a little.

he hadn’t noticed when it happened. a single moment of distraction, a laugh in the wrong direction, and then—something was off. the world felt too sharp and too distant all at once, his pulse pounding in his ears, his skin burning hot beneath the leather of his jacket. conversation became impossible to track, words melting together in a slurry of sound.

.

his so-called friend was saying something, their voice sticky with amusement, but caspian barely heard it over the static in his head. his fingers curled tight around his glass, as if anchoring himself to it would steady the restless sway of his vision. his jaw clenched, breath shallow, and he forced himself to stay upright, to not let them see the way his body was betraying him. but they knew. they had to.

he needed to get out. needed to move. but the floor felt like it was tilting beneath him, and when he stepped back, someone’s hands found his shoulders, holding him in place. his stomach churned, nausea creeping up his throat.

caspian barely registers the sound of his name at first, lost in the slow, syrupy drag of time, his limbs weightless yet unbearably heavy all at once. the music crashes against his skull, a chaotic tide that drowns out thought, but then—then there’s a voice, cutting through the noise like a knife, familiar in a way that makes something deep in his chest stir.

cassie. sugar.

his vision swims, but he knows that face. it takes him a moment, a desperate reach through the haze clouding his mind, but he finds it—finds him. the name flickers at the edges of his consciousness, slipping from his grasp until it doesn’t, until it solidifies, and the relief that crashes through him is dizzying. his head turned, sluggish, and when his gaze finally found altair’s—smudged kohl, silver glinting in the dim light, that easy, assured smirk—he exhaled like a drowning man breaking the surface.

salvation.

“altair,” he breathes, like a prayer, like the only solid thing in a world that’s unraveling at the seams.

altair’s voice reaches him, smooth and easy, a sharp contrast to the overwhelming noise pressing in from all sides. his name falls from caspian’s lips like a lifeline, his fingers catching at the fabric of his shirt, grasping at something—anything—solid. the noise of the warehouse swells and fades, warping in his ears, but altair remains steady, real, cutting through the haze clouding his mind. he leans in without thinking, his body tipping toward the warmth of him, breath hitching against the curve of his shoulder.

the world tilts, the ground unsteady beneath caspian’s feet, and the only thing keeping him from slipping under completely is him.

“alt-"

but before he can fully settle, before the relief can take root, another presence pushes its way back into his orbit.

"he's with us," a voice—too familiar, too unwelcome—cuts in, sharp and possessive.

caspian flinches as a heavy arm loops around his waist, yanking him upright with a force that nearly makes his knees buckle. his so-called friend—the one who brought him here, the one whose persistence had begun to grate long before caspian’s world had started to blur—throws one of his arms over his own shoulder, gripping him a little too tight, his fingers pressing into the damp fabric of caspian’s sleeve.

"he's my guest," the man adds, his smile wide but empty, the glint in his eye something between amusement and warning. "i’ll take care of him."

caspian tries to speak, tries to shake his head, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, the words slipping through his fingers before he can form them. his body doesn’t feel like his own, limbs sluggish, breath shallow, and a part of him knows—knows something isn’t right, knows that if he stays, if he lets himself be pulled back into that circle of grinning, glassy-eyed faces, he won’t come out the same.

so he does the only thing he can do.

he turns to altair, wide, unfocused eyes locking onto his with something close to desperation. "altair," he breathes again, softer this time, pleading. his fingers twitch against his shirt, curling in weakly. "please."

he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. but he knows altair is the only one who can give it to him.

@caspian jeon there is a certain kind of frantic energy to the old warehouse hidden in a corner of the port, the kind that usually is brought on by crowds as wild as this one - unsure where the shrill sound of punk music stops and the sounds of the crowd start, unclear where bodies meet and part and meld together. the spot altair has found for himself and his little group (all people he does not know, will not remember, souls just passing through the town he has chosen as his new home) is more secluded, allows him to hear whatever drunken story he's being told more clearly, though the words swim together in his intoxicated mind. there is not a drop of alcohol in his system, not when he does not know the local scene just yet, but the excitement of a show as raw as this one is enough to make him feel positively drunk. so, he lingers, floats at the edge of the crowd of leather and spikes, his own net shirt clinging to the sweat of his back in a similar way to the strands of hair against his forehead, his kohl surely smudged, the ice in the glass of coke he's holding long melted.

his eyes scan the edge of the crow, ever vigilant ; it is a habit he has developed over the years. the scene might be built up on equality and kindness, on political values that should mean inclusion, yes, but as with any alternative space that is loud and dark and sharp, the usual s flock to it like flies to rotting flesh. and so, even as his smile remains bright and his laughter brighter, he cannot fight the habit of checking on strangers he will most likely never see again, unable to ignore the mild feeling of unease prickling at the back of his throat.

it takes a while, he has to give it that much. and at first it is not even his vigilance that pulls his gaze towards a figure towering over most - a man that sticks out like a sore thumb between the battle jackets and torn sweaters, pretty figures washed out by the flashing lights of the cheap strobes. it is interest, pure and simple, that makes altair push away from the wall he's been pressed up against with his shoulder blades for the better part of an hour now, heavy boots thudding along the dingy floor of the abandoned lot. it is intrigue that forces him to weave through the crowd of bodies, barely dodging an elbow that should not be flying that far away from the pit, all to get to the center of his attention. but what makes him move faster, his mind sharpen into something almost sober once more, is the dazed expression across delicate features, the patchy flush of cheeks, the group of people that look like picture book bastards surrounding the man who's name the american is trying very hard to remember. it comes to him mere seconds before he reaches the small group, by which point the smile is back on his lips, confident and friendly enough, though with a sharpness that leaves little room for arguments. "cassie, what're y'doin' here, sugar?" he exclaims in a manner entirely too familiar, shouldering past one of the figures with just a bit too much force, his hand immediately reaching out to rest against caspian's back, steady and calm.

@rico kim Siwoo leaned back into the passenger seat of his cruiser, staring at the road ahead as they drove to the location of the report. The badge clipped to his chest felt heavier than usual, as if it were mocking him. After convincing his father and the Inferno Dragons that having a member with law enforcement ties would be beneficial, he had finally earned his badge. But deep down, he knew he was a fake—a fraud. He was still the same weak child who had been at Inferno’s beck and call. Today was just another day of wearing a mask imposed on him, only this time it was the mask of his choosing.

“Here we are,” his partner muttered, pulling him out of his thoughts. The two officers unbuckled themselves and hurried towards the scene. “Yah! Everyone lower your weapons and put your hands up.”

“Everyone calm down and-“ Siwoo paused, his eyes catching a familiar tattoo on one of the men’s necks — a serpent’s bite. He cursed inwardly and his head quickly whipped to the side. ‘ing hell…’ The Steel Serpents. How did he forget that the Infernos had pushed them out to Wineport after they discovered the Serpents were selling counterfeit products of their goods. His jaw clenched as he closed his eyes briefly. He needed to calm down. It was years ago and they couldn’t have remembered what he looked like. The Infernos would never be caught dead in a cop uniform either.

He lifted his head up along with the gun in his hand, his eyes meeting the supposed caller for a brief moment and then returning to the threat before him. “Everyone, please just calm down. We don’t want any more issues.”

[[ lmao I tried ashhdhsh sorry for my birdbrain. write as much or as little as you want, don’t mirror!]]

@ji hyunbin siwoo eyed the strange man suspiciously, his lips twitching in irritation. was this son of a handsome mocking him? surely he didn’t look THAT homeless. the wipes beside him made sure of it. he poked the inside of his cheek and rolled his eyes, planting a finger into the man’s forehead and him back (sfw) away from the window. “then can you kindly off and stop stalking me? that would help a great deal and I would be f o r e v e r grateful for your generosity.” he flashed the man a forced smile, eyes flicking back and forth to the cabin as he starts to roll his window up.

@lee siwoo hyunbin took the friendly wave as an invitation to approach. poor thing, he must have been cold, hyunbin could see it in his gaze ( audience laughter ), anybody would reproach in such a way in this situation. hyunbin could only respond with kindness like kindling to a fire to warm the heart of this homeless man. "oh no, i wouldn't do that, sir," he clarified with respect, hyunbin didn't sell to poors. "i just wanted to let you know that I've noticed you've been camped out here for a while now," he explained, mounting his hand on the roof of the car as he leaned in eye level with the other, "if you need a place to stay, i have room at my place. it's not much but it beats camping out in the cold."

@ji hyunbin camping out in his car was the last thing siwoo ever wanted to do, but after what felt like grasping at straws, he finally got a lead and he wasn’t going to let his days off from work go to waste. his eyes fluttered open, and he sank back in his chair when the lights of a small cabin . at the same time, he saw an unknown man making his way over to his car. he waved the person away, but they kept approaching. he groaned and rolled down his window, gaze as cold as ice sending daggers towards the stranger. “what, what what what?” he hissed. “if you’re trying to sell something, no thanks.”

@lee siwoo maybe it was none of his business, but hyunbin was concerned. at the port, he noticed a car parked in the same spot in the quiet corner of the parking lot where the streetlights didn't reach. once or twice would be a coincidence, but hyunbin was concerned that the owner of the vehicle was homeless and camped out at the port in their car. being the good samaritan he was, hyunbin decided to give a knock on the window, his angelic smile flashing the man inside (sfw). "excuse me," he apologized, "is it okay if i take some of your time?"