𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋! | ateez

a fever you can't sweat out

FEBRUARY 23RD, 2121 A.D
—AURORA SPACECRAFT.
[CURRENT STANDING: MARS]

flowers are picked by his plump, rosy fingers. untouched by training, uncalloused and sweet. they look foreign on him; too child-like, too pure.

the flower field he kneels in is unknown to him. there are lavenders buried somewhere amongst the ferns, and bees that scatter pollen through the precious air that tickles his nose. there is air- sweet, delicious air. he strokes the soft, viridian floor. gravity. the wind whispers sweet nothings into his ears, blowing through his growing hair, unobstructed by cold aeronautic headwear. it is loud, strikingly deafening. the wind breathes deep into his eyes. they water, for a split, sparing second. turning his view into an inky, vacuum black.

this is not where you belong.

you are meant for so much more.

you are a god. a god that has slept through time. slumber has sickened you, wielded you into a weakling. a human. remember your transcendence! remember your position!

where are you, mars? why can't i find you?

danger is arising.

wake up. the time is ripe, and your reign is loud and unlimited. your power shall course through the cosmos, along with your kin. you are the messenger; the first of the gods to have awoken.

where are you, mars? why can't i sense your power?

stir from your slumber. this delirium you call a mortal life, before you are bound to this sick fragility of humankind.

it's time; hurry. embark on your journey.

steadfast. you are the first. hurry.

with a lung-screaming gasp, seonghwa wakes up, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth with a painful dryness. his head pounds with the drums of a thousand marching soldiers, thumping syncopatedly with a heart that's deadbeat on breaking out of his chest.

"hyung, you woke up late again! hongjoong-hyung isn't gonna be happy- that's the fourth time this week!" jongho reprimands with a teasing yet concerned grin, doe eyes laced with worry. seonghwa swears under his breath and fires a hearty threat at the cook, who floats off gleefully to the central bay. the bleary-eyed twenty-two year old casts a glance at the calendar suspended on the wall. sunday. he groans. not only has he endured five consecutive, long nights of cryptic nightmares, he also has to face paperwork day.

seven sets of eyes travel to the entrance of the bay, the younger members' eyes gleam and teases dripping from their tongues whilst the elders of the team watch him steadily. small droplets have followed him like a slug trail from his shower, draping through the anti-gravity air and evaporating in the sleepy warmth of the aurora's core. no amount of makeup (or, lack thereof. there was no time to bask in the luxuries of vanity) could hide the bloodshot, stinging eyes moulded into the shadowy crevices beneath his heavily hooded eyelids. damn. he'll have to put teaspoons in the fridge again to reduce the puffiness.

"here he comes," yeosang singsongs, "the sleepy prince."

"shut it. not in the mood today," he replies curtly, though no venom is laced between the words, and his eyes meet the navigator's reproachful nod. thankfully, the atmosphere on the ship makes up for lost conversation that seonghwa could not find within him to entertain, and so he watches the smell of coffee drift through the air (their jongho may be the resident cook, but ultimately mingi took the prize as the best barista in space), the regular friendliness and ease between crewmates paired with the reassuring hold of daily routine on the ship. jongho stops san from putting extra creamer into his coffee. wooyoung and hongjoong chat amicably about a new video game freshly released on earth. seonghwa checks the weather forecast: light meteor showers, nothing more than a scatter of debris should come their way. the normal swing of things wakes him up a little, forces him to shake off the ominous dreams circling his subconscious.