Moon Theory [BL]

“Let me?” Yang Rong asks as he tries to strip Noah of his jacket. He frowns when the younger man shakes his head and huddles himself by the wheel of the truck, unwilling to be touched. The colonel has a med kit out and is insistent on dressing the surface wound. He crouches down beside him and clicks his tongue. “Noah, since when have you become this fussy? If I recall correctly, you were always adamant about covering up every little papercut on your body. Be good and let Rong-ge clean it up, hm?”

“No,” he replies. “It is healed.”

“It has healed in a minute?”

“…Mn.”

“Amazing.” Yang Rong compliments him – it drips of amused pampering – and then he leans forward with a slight smile on his face. “Show me.”

“…” Noah buries his head into his arms, ignoring the painful strain of his shoulder. He is determined to not let Yang Rong touch him.

“…What’s wrong?” Yang Rong asks as he plays with the fur of Noah’s hood. “What is it this time…? Is it my pheromones again? I won’t do it anymore, little kitten, so don’t be angry, hm?” There is no response, and the colonel begins to talk again. “If you are really mad, I’ll go repent. I got carried away, Noah, but I am not one to be merciful whether they’re five years old or fifty.”

“I know,” Noah says with his head still buried. “You are cruel, Colonel Yang.”

A low sigh as Yang Rong pries the hood off his head – Noah does struggle, but to no avail. “I believe you are too softhearted, Noah.”

The young man squeezes his eyes shut and still refuses to lift his head. Yang Rong has to physically bind his arms away and take ahold of his jaw, tilting him up. Noah, oddly persistent, tries to turn away. The colonel frowns and says, “Noah… you are being fickle again. Rong-ge is only touching you slightly – what is there to be embarrassed about? I’m telling you to take off your jacket, not to strip. But mind you, I have already seen a little more than half of your naked body, so it won’t make much of a difference anyway, would it?”

“…They are unsightly.”

“What is?” Yang Rong isn’t on the same train of thought. “I am conjuring up an image of your naked body right now, Noah, and my reaction is… Not something I should say, but I can attest that as long as you build up a bit more muscle mass, it would be better for your stamina and—"

“My eyes,” Noah clarifies. “They are unsightly, so I don’t want you to look at them. Colonel Yang… please look away.”

The colonel pauses. Noah, with his back leaned against the truck, has his face turned sideways and his eyes squeezed shut. There is brewing trepidation the longer Yang Rong remains silent, the man choosing to stare at him so hard he can feel. Everything comes to a standstill – the rustling bushes, swaying trees, drowned-out howls of some creatures far away.

Noah is inexplicably anxious about all this though it wouldn’t be the first time Yang Rong’s seen his brief mutation. “Sorry,” he whispers, unsure what he’s exactly apologizing for. “It happens sometimes. I don’t know why. It’ll go away so just—"

“Your eyes?” The colonel unexpectedly leans forward. Noah is caught unaware when Yang Rong reaches a hand to brush on his cheek and when he opens his eyes in surprise… Yang Rong is staring so closely with the most fond look on his face, his green eyes gleaming emerald and a dozen shades of pure jade. “They are beautiful.”

Then the man leans in even more to plant a chaste kiss on the tender skin of his upper cheek. Noah’s lashes quiver upon contact and his body is frozen solid – not like he had any time to react when Yang Rong promptly leans back, flashing him a wink.

“Hm… They are really beautiful, Noah,” Yang Rong smirks at him, “especially in the way they complement your blush.”

“…”

If Noah were actually blushing before, he is not anymore. He does, however, still allow Yang Rong to take off his jacket. The man proceeds to treat his wound while whistling a random upbeat melody, fully content and in an oddly good mood. Yang Rong also completely dismisses that his own shoulder is just sprained – not like he’d feel a thing anyway, that brawny alpha swine.

“So what do you say?” Yang Rong asks a minute later after disinfection. “Are you still up for a ride?” He juts his chin at the truck behind them and his smirk grows wider. “I am a good driver, so I promise a full experience.”

Noah furrows his brows, unable to insinuate whatever the man is getting at. “The things you say are getting stranger, Colonel Yang.”

“Call me Rong-ge,

” comes the shameless response. “Would you give it a try, little kitten? I really am skilled at all sorts of positions.”

“…Positions?” Noah ponders for a bit before shaking his head in dismissal. “Nevermind, Colonel Yang. It is quite common for you to say nonsensical things.”

“I have reached certain enlightenment,” Yang Rong says with the most haughty expression yet, his posture preening for praise. “But it doesn’t seem you understand yet, so I will demonstrate my prowess.”

One again, Noah is taken aback by how utterly strange the man can get at times. He nods slowly to placate. “…Alright, Colonel Yang. If you are so insistent on pushing a one-thousand-kilogram car up an incline, then please do so. I may add that there are a few slopes and bumps on the road, so—”

“What?” Yang Rong blinks. “There are slopes? Little kitten, I haven’t yet factored that into my calculations. Don’t be mistaken—it isn’t that I am unable because your Rong-ge can run at every level of the decathlon… But more theoretically speaking, to apply a force equivalent to gravity times the weight of the truck… isn’t it a bit much to—"

Noah lets out a soft chuckle, his eyes crinkling up in mirth. His pupils haven’t yet morphed back, and in between vertical slits are even more titillating hues of golden yellow and crystal blue, blending so perfectly with the residue blush on his cheek. Yang Rong stares, enraptured.

He flicks Yang Rong softly on the forehead. “Well, I wasn’t aware you knew what a decathlon was, nor did I expect you to calculate physics, of all things. Have you been studying?”

Noah’s lips are curved up prettily as he traces his finger down the colonel’s cheek, rubbing at the single streak of blood. “No matter, Colonel Yang. We will walk.”

---

“Gong gong,” a young boy calls out as he drags his beaten body past the forest. His steps are laggard and his broken arm sways limply in motion. On his left hand is a dirty brown firearm that assumes the shape of a rifle with a choppy wooden hilt and haphazard etchings on the grip. The zip gun is not of extremely intricately quality, but it has seen at least a year of usage, judging from how worn out the stock is.

“Gong gong,” the boy tries again when he reaches a small shed. His voice is obviously strained and breathless.

A short middle-aged man comes out of hiding behind the wall. His entire posture is hunched back, and he has the workings of a lower-class peasant, what with his grayed-out hair and raggedy clothes too thin to be sufficient during wintertime. Typical for a person who dwells in the slums, really, but he has a relatively meek aura in comparison to the little boy who is both intelligent and driven in nature.

“I am back.” They speak in a foreign language, some dialect of Cantonese that is almost entirely extinct. “I couldn’t find any food, grandpa, and I’ve used almost all our bullets.”

The grandfather’s eyes widen when he sees the boy’s broken arm. He quickly moves over to inspect his injuries, patting his entire body down.

“Stupid!” the man spits out. “What have you done this time?! Grandpa was worried sick, and you rascal had to go out and make trouble!”

“Grandpa, I met two people,” the boy says. “They had a car. They must be rich.”

“Tang… ah-Tang…” The grandfather sighs softly and reaches into his pocket to pull out a crinkled wad of bills. It’s an extraordinary amount for the residents here – almost a thousand in pure cash. The man takes away the boy’s firearm and places the bills in his hand instead. “Your grandpa sold enough food to afford us a place to live in the city border for a month. Ah-Tang, if you meet the entrance qualifications, go down south to the city and live well.”

The boy narrows his eyes and slaps the money back into the elder’s hand. He spits out angrily, “I don’t want to. You’re going to rot here and die without me, old man.”

“You are turning twelve soon,” the grandfather says as he shoves the money back to him. “You are more than capable enough to go off on your own. You are strong enough to use a gun. There will definitely be a place for you in the city. This useless old man is holding you back, ah-Tang.”

“I don’t care,” the boy spits out again. “I don’t want to live in the stupid city. I am fine out here, and I can kill anyone who comes our way. We can live comfortably by stealing from a bunch of idiots.”

“Killing…” the elder sighs. “Ah-

Tang, I regret that your father taught you how to kill. A boy your age should not be saying such rash things.”

He gets a snort in response. “If I don’t learn how to kill, we would be dead long ago, grandpa.”

A drawn-out sigh. The grandfather’s eyes are tired and unfocused, the whites of his sockets turned bloodshot from fatigue. One look at his weary appearance and it’s clear he had gone days without sleep. Malnutrition has caused deep indents in his cheeks, the area sunken in so much that the bone is visible. The grandfather pats the boy on the head.

“I’m sorry, ah-Tang.” He has on a bitter smile.

“You are saying it again,” the boy says, “but you never tell me what you are sorry about.”

“I am sorry.” The elder continues to pat the body’s unwashed hair. “That you have to live like this.”

“What other way is there to live?” The boy gives him an odd look. “Grandpa, I don’t know what you’re saying, but killing people is not a big deal. It is all the same to me. I don’t care if it is a person or an animal.”

“I know,” the grandfather tells him, taking his wrist to guide him elsewhere. “We should go back home and take care of your arm. You can tell me what happened on the way.”

“The man broke it,” the boy replies angrily. “I can’t move it at all.”

“Stupid boy,” the man shakes his head in disappointment, “do not pick fights with the strong.”

“’Do not pick fights with the strong. Do not prey on the weak,’” the boy mimics him mockingly. “Then what else do you want me to do?”

“Grandpa just wants you unharmed and—"

Then, a rapid movement from their left. An unknown predator springs forward so quickly neither of them could even see it. The creature flashes in shadows and motion-blurred blobs, striking the elder in the head.

The sudden attack throws the man against the shed, knocking him so forcefully he blacks out immediately. His limp body drops to the ground and the boy is horrified, unable to make a single move.

“Grandpa!” he shouts loudly as he tries to aim with his rifle.

It is futile, however, when his dominant arm is pathetically broken and languid on the side of his body. He comes to face with a lynx the size of three full-grown adults, astronomically larger than himself.

The boy stands petrified as it lunges toward him.

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