Wuthering Promises

✦ O1

— ✦ Warnings: Mentions of a crash, bodily harm and alcohol.

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The discordant and blaring sound of a siren resonated off the walls of the bridge like a cry of agony, the multiple computer panels scattered across them flashing and periodically engulfing the room in red light as warnings blinked on the screen. The ship shook and trembled as it crashed against the floating debris around it, a thick, pungent smell of ash overtaking the air filter and making its way inside the room.

A cold hand gripped the arms of a chair, nails scraping against the cushion in a desperate attempt to ground themselves and avoid slipping out and getting smashed against the window. The seatbelt pushed against his chest—it was the only thing saving him from a potentially deadly concussion and broken limbs—and left his skin burning and aching, making sure that afterwards a red mark would be left at that spot.

“T minus 2 minutes before collision.” A robotic voice reverberated over the alarm, the sounds only growing in intensity.

(Y/n)’s back was thrown back against the chair as the ship was hit by another asteroid, the loud thud barely being heard amidst the cacophony.

“Fuck!”

A sharp ringing stabbed (Y/n)’s ears and left a headache in its wake—just what he needed today of all days, he bitterly remarked. He dragged his feet against the floor with his head hunched over; he felt as if he were melting, his body feverish and weak as he experienced his first hangover in a long time.

He pressed his hand on the passcode panel and leaned against the door, a discontent grumble leaving his lips as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold metal surface. The (h/c)-haired man fell forward as the door slid open, his body far too weak and tired to stand up on its own. He was enveloped by something warm before he could fall, strong arms holding his torso and keeping him from hitting his head on the floor.

“You oughta be more careful, captain.” Rowan's husky laugh blew warm air into (Y/n)'s ear, his hold tightening further.

“My head is fucking pounding. Can't we postpone the launch?” He grumbled, leaning into the touch of the black-haired man.

The man slipped his arm around the waist of the captain, holding him up properly and forcing him—to some degree—to stand on his own two feet. “‘fraid not. You should’ve laid off the booze yesterday.”

“Do enlighten me on how I am supposed to celebrate without alcohol.” (Y/n) huffed, opening his eyes and relaxing against Rowan's hold. “Let me complain without bringing up my responsibilities ‘til breakfast. We can be professional later.” He had a rictus on his lips as he suggested—more so ordered—that he be carried to the dining hall by refusing to stand.

“Glad to be of service to you anytime, (Y/n).“ His gray eyes crinkled at the corners, gleaming with a hint of amusement as he teased the captain.

“How come you're fine? You drank a bunch too.” The (h/c)-haired man interjected, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

“Not nearly as much as you, but let's not dwell on your alcoholic tendencies.” Rowan rolled his eyes, opening the door to the dining hall.

It seemed that the rest of the crew was equally tired, the routine chatter unusually absent and instead replaced by a comfortable silence, save for the occasional clattering of silverware. Scattered across the tables was the group of people that formed Team Arcadia, the familiar and trustworthy faces of the empire's space program. (Y/n) stood up and threw himself on the nearest table, pressing his cheek against the sleek surface and closing his eyes.