Round 20: 火
Title: 火
Team: AU
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: fire[Spoiler (click to open)], break-up
Fandom: Infinite, SHINee
Pairing: Sungjong/Taemin
Summary: Things are pretty when they break.
Author's Note: Thank you so much to M and L for literally eleventh hour help, any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Thank you to A for only calling me crazy and S for shrugging and my wonderful beta who makes everything better.
Prompt Used: Bangtan Boys - Danger and the additional prompts from the set (photograph and an excerpt of the book Reflected in You by Sylvia Day).
火
fire, flame, burn, anger, rage.
sorry Taemin says to say he can't make it because of practice
maybe next time
Sungjong watches as the words flash across the screen, white on black. Yes, it's that simple.
He looks at the food on the table, the candles, flickering in the light breeze of the open window, his reflection in the mirror. He's been waiting here for what, three hours? Why am I still doing this to myself? The food is ruined-meat cold, pasta congealed, sauce coagulated into clotted lumps. Sitting at the table, he picks up a fork and takes a bite of steak. The rare meat is rusty on his tongue as the taste of cold iron fills his mouth, sticks in his throat. I hate myself for needing you. He pounds at his chest but, just like Taemin, it won't dislodge itself from his chest so easily, the air souring in his lungs as he falls forward, mouth open in an airless gasp as his chest hits the edge of the table and the raw flesh finally dislodges itself from his throat, arching through the air like a morbid promise as it disappears onto the floor. The fork in his hand spins off to the side, catching the third candlestick, three years together, as it falls to the ground in a dull clatter, metal on wood.
The air rushing back into his lungs hurts. Sungjong watches, rasping, everything in slow motion, as the candle stick rocks on its base, left, right, almost steadying itself before a tiny breath of wind gives it just the wrong tiny flick of momentum to topple to the ground.
It's darker, then, for a moment, two candles instead of three, shadows blooming in the silence, the inhalation before a low red glow rises. The flame has caught on the area rug, the hideous expensive thing Taemin insisted on buying despite all protests to the contrary, synthetic materials melting as they fuse to the natural fiber weave which goes up like a box of matches.
It's strange, how easy it is for something to burn.
Sungjong watches, almost curious, as the fames race across the rug before hitting the floor, creeping more slowly on the sealed wood but jumping ahead on the outstretching plastic cords, the lifelines of Taemin's stereo system that he uses to underpin his step practice, even when he's at home.
Flames dance up the thin plastic, pausing to melt and devour the speakers themselves before they begin climbing the wall, all the photographs of different times, smiling into the camera, remembering the moments before, whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears, giggling so much that the photographer would scold them, merging into photographs of two people side by side, one's gaze fixed on the clock hanging just behind the photographer's head while the other's eyes are flicking sideways to stare at them, and finally two people, not touching, eyes locked in equidistant parallel lines on the lens as they don't meet-frozen in timeless celluloid. The flames eat everything.
There's a box on the hall table by the door, white with a silver ribbon, and inside is the gift he bought for Taemin, just in case he remembered. Just in case it mattered to him. It doesn't.
A silver Zippo lighter, nestled in blue velvet. It's almost ironic, watching the box being engulfed by flames. It cools Sungjong's heart, allows him to start moving again.
You didn't even have the decency to message me directly. I had to hear it from your friend.
Sungjong sets his thumb on the home button, unlocking his phone that accepts only two fingerprints. Mine and yours. Since Taemin isn't able to attend, he'll send him a message instead. The thought makes him smile, profile reflected in the mirror against the scarlet flames licking the walls as he sets the phone on the table before him, in the midst of the ruin of celebratory meal, and presses the red button.
This is the last time you'll forget me.
火 火 火
Taemin is in the middle of nailing a tricky dance routine when his phone goes off.
Beep beep, Beep beep
The interruption to his routine puts him off balance, left foot falling when it's not supposed to and the flow is completely broken, ruined.vDammit I must have forgotten to put it on silent. He glares at his reflection in the mirror and starts over again, sweat working into the creases of his skin and stinging his eyes with a burning intensity.
It takes fifteen more tries before he gets it right; he knows it's fifteen because he counts, white shadows in the veils of his peripheral vision-this is the only thing that matters.
Dancing is the only thing that matters. There's no room for anything else.
When he finally gets it right, finally feels the pattern work into his skin and muscle, engrave itself on his bones, he stops, flopping down boneless on the studio floor. It's surprisingly cold, or maybe it's just that he's burning up. I need a drink.
He's reaching for his water bottle when he happens to brush his phone and the screen flashes to life. 1 unread message It's from Sungjong.
Sungjong. It's hard to think for a moment, he blinks and takes a breath. Oh right, my boyfriend.
Grabbing his phone and the water bottle, he slumps against the mirrored wall, wincing as his head hits the glass just a little too hard. Ouch.
The water isn't very quenching, too sweet in his mouth and that's how he knows he's put it off too long, but that's just one of the things he gives up for the motions, the music in his flesh. Whatever. Taemin flicks his thumb over the twisted unlock pattern, an S and a T entwined together.
Sungjong is sitting in the shadows, candlelight flickering from two candlesticks on either side of the camera, the flame reflected strangely, it must be the angle and refraction that's making it look like the flames are larger than they seem.
Hello Taemin, Sungjong says, and there's something wrong with his voice. The bottle slips out of his hand, water splashing out across the floor, staining the wood, but he doesn't even notice.
Happy Anniversary, Sungjong continues, smiling as his eyes glint with red flame. His voice is sharp, controlled, dead. I'm so very glad you decided to make it, I'm so overjoyed that you care more about your boyfriend, the one you love oh so very much, over your dancing.
His voice cuts like a knife through the post-dance haze in Taemin's mind. It hurts.
I wish you all the very very best in everything you do, of course I do, because I love you so so so very much. Every repetition, every consonant stabs directly between his eyes. Sungjong stares at him for a moment, and Taemin can't look away; even though he knows that it's just a video message, he feels like Sungjong is actually looking at him through the screen.
I think about you every day because I love you. I hope, I know that you think about me too, see my face watching you in the mirror even when I can't be there to watch you dance, I know that you can feel me in the steps you take and the motions you make. You dance because you love me and I understand. I understand that your dancing is the embodiment of your love for me.
Sungjong stands up, the sound of the chair legs scraping over the wood floor cracking like a whip through the speakers. His mouth twists then, maybe it's just the deeper shadows on his face, the crimson glow.
And so I know that you don't need me anymore, not when your dancing is me; I am the music in your skin and my heartbeat in the baseline resounding through your bones. So this is goodbye.
Sungjong's face flickers then, cracks a little, and the darkness peers out of his eyelids as he reaches forwards for the camera.
You can never forget me.
He turns the camera in his hands, revealing the other side of the room, no longer a room but a howling mass of flames obscuring the door, eating at the walls and floor and destroying everything Taemin owns; his hands grope subconsciously for his water but the bottle is empty, the liquid inside spilled out wastefully onto the floor earlier-his mistake.
There's only the suffocating crackling of flames for a moment, before he hears the sound of footsteps, one, two three, he automatically mouths, footwork for a dance step he'll never learn, as the phone spins dizzyingly through the air, catching the corner of Sungjong's face as his eyes sparkle, whether with anger or tears Taemin can't tell and it's too late as the flames reach up to grab the phone, the screen flickering and the speakers crackling to painful screeching static as the phone melts and then darkness.
The phone falls out of Taemin's hands.
His friend comes back into the room, "ready to start the next part?" Jongin asks, grinning as he flicks on the music, and Taemin feels the nausea in his throat rise so fast at the sound of the beat, the idea of moving his body in rhythm with the song, that he throws himself half upright and towards the hall and still doesn't make it to the toilet, violent orange vomit splattering over the white tiles, his internal fire that burns as it comes back up, out into the open.
Remember me.
The cut text is from the Mo-Blue-Mix of Danger, featuring Thanh Bui.
1597
Poll
Team: AU
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: fire[Spoiler (click to open)], break-up
Fandom: Infinite, SHINee
Pairing: Sungjong/Taemin
Summary: Things are pretty when they break.
Author's Note: Thank you so much to M and L for literally eleventh hour help, any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Thank you to A for only calling me crazy and S for shrugging and my wonderful beta who makes everything better.
Prompt Used: Bangtan Boys - Danger and the additional prompts from the set (photograph and an excerpt of the book Reflected in You by Sylvia Day).
火
fire, flame, burn, anger, rage.
sorry Taemin says to say he can't make it because of practice
maybe next time
Sungjong watches as the words flash across the screen, white on black. Yes, it's that simple.
He looks at the food on the table, the candles, flickering in the light breeze of the open window, his reflection in the mirror. He's been waiting here for what, three hours? Why am I still doing this to myself? The food is ruined-meat cold, pasta congealed, sauce coagulated into clotted lumps. Sitting at the table, he picks up a fork and takes a bite of steak. The rare meat is rusty on his tongue as the taste of cold iron fills his mouth, sticks in his throat. I hate myself for needing you. He pounds at his chest but, just like Taemin, it won't dislodge itself from his chest so easily, the air souring in his lungs as he falls forward, mouth open in an airless gasp as his chest hits the edge of the table and the raw flesh finally dislodges itself from his throat, arching through the air like a morbid promise as it disappears onto the floor. The fork in his hand spins off to the side, catching the third candlestick, three years together, as it falls to the ground in a dull clatter, metal on wood.
The air rushing back into his lungs hurts. Sungjong watches, rasping, everything in slow motion, as the candle stick rocks on its base, left, right, almost steadying itself before a tiny breath of wind gives it just the wrong tiny flick of momentum to topple to the ground.
It's darker, then, for a moment, two candles instead of three, shadows blooming in the silence, the inhalation before a low red glow rises. The flame has caught on the area rug, the hideous expensive thing Taemin insisted on buying despite all protests to the contrary, synthetic materials melting as they fuse to the natural fiber weave which goes up like a box of matches.
It's strange, how easy it is for something to burn.
Sungjong watches, almost curious, as the fames race across the rug before hitting the floor, creeping more slowly on the sealed wood but jumping ahead on the outstretching plastic cords, the lifelines of Taemin's stereo system that he uses to underpin his step practice, even when he's at home.
Flames dance up the thin plastic, pausing to melt and devour the speakers themselves before they begin climbing the wall, all the photographs of different times, smiling into the camera, remembering the moments before, whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears, giggling so much that the photographer would scold them, merging into photographs of two people side by side, one's gaze fixed on the clock hanging just behind the photographer's head while the other's eyes are flicking sideways to stare at them, and finally two people, not touching, eyes locked in equidistant parallel lines on the lens as they don't meet-frozen in timeless celluloid. The flames eat everything.
There's a box on the hall table by the door, white with a silver ribbon, and inside is the gift he bought for Taemin, just in case he remembered. Just in case it mattered to him. It doesn't.
A silver Zippo lighter, nestled in blue velvet. It's almost ironic, watching the box being engulfed by flames. It cools Sungjong's heart, allows him to start moving again.
You didn't even have the decency to message me directly. I had to hear it from your friend.
Sungjong sets his thumb on the home button, unlocking his phone that accepts only two fingerprints. Mine and yours. Since Taemin isn't able to attend, he'll send him a message instead. The thought makes him smile, profile reflected in the mirror against the scarlet flames licking the walls as he sets the phone on the table before him, in the midst of the ruin of celebratory meal, and presses the red button.
This is the last time you'll forget me.
火 火 火
Taemin is in the middle of nailing a tricky dance routine when his phone goes off.
Beep beep, Beep beep
The interruption to his routine puts him off balance, left foot falling when it's not supposed to and the flow is completely broken, ruined.vDammit I must have forgotten to put it on silent. He glares at his reflection in the mirror and starts over again, sweat working into the creases of his skin and stinging his eyes with a burning intensity.
It takes fifteen more tries before he gets it right; he knows it's fifteen because he counts, white shadows in the veils of his peripheral vision-this is the only thing that matters.
Dancing is the only thing that matters. There's no room for anything else.
When he finally gets it right, finally feels the pattern work into his skin and muscle, engrave itself on his bones, he stops, flopping down boneless on the studio floor. It's surprisingly cold, or maybe it's just that he's burning up. I need a drink.
He's reaching for his water bottle when he happens to brush his phone and the screen flashes to life. 1 unread message It's from Sungjong.
Sungjong. It's hard to think for a moment, he blinks and takes a breath. Oh right, my boyfriend.
Grabbing his phone and the water bottle, he slumps against the mirrored wall, wincing as his head hits the glass just a little too hard. Ouch.
The water isn't very quenching, too sweet in his mouth and that's how he knows he's put it off too long, but that's just one of the things he gives up for the motions, the music in his flesh. Whatever. Taemin flicks his thumb over the twisted unlock pattern, an S and a T entwined together.
Sungjong is sitting in the shadows, candlelight flickering from two candlesticks on either side of the camera, the flame reflected strangely, it must be the angle and refraction that's making it look like the flames are larger than they seem.
Hello Taemin, Sungjong says, and there's something wrong with his voice. The bottle slips out of his hand, water splashing out across the floor, staining the wood, but he doesn't even notice.
Happy Anniversary, Sungjong continues, smiling as his eyes glint with red flame. His voice is sharp, controlled, dead. I'm so very glad you decided to make it, I'm so overjoyed that you care more about your boyfriend, the one you love oh so very much, over your dancing.
His voice cuts like a knife through the post-dance haze in Taemin's mind. It hurts.
I wish you all the very very best in everything you do, of course I do, because I love you so so so very much. Every repetition, every consonant stabs directly between his eyes. Sungjong stares at him for a moment, and Taemin can't look away; even though he knows that it's just a video message, he feels like Sungjong is actually looking at him through the screen.
I think about you every day because I love you. I hope, I know that you think about me too, see my face watching you in the mirror even when I can't be there to watch you dance, I know that you can feel me in the steps you take and the motions you make. You dance because you love me and I understand. I understand that your dancing is the embodiment of your love for me.
Sungjong stands up, the sound of the chair legs scraping over the wood floor cracking like a whip through the speakers. His mouth twists then, maybe it's just the deeper shadows on his face, the crimson glow.
And so I know that you don't need me anymore, not when your dancing is me; I am the music in your skin and my heartbeat in the baseline resounding through your bones. So this is goodbye.
Sungjong's face flickers then, cracks a little, and the darkness peers out of his eyelids as he reaches forwards for the camera.
You can never forget me.
He turns the camera in his hands, revealing the other side of the room, no longer a room but a howling mass of flames obscuring the door, eating at the walls and floor and destroying everything Taemin owns; his hands grope subconsciously for his water but the bottle is empty, the liquid inside spilled out wastefully onto the floor earlier-his mistake.
There's only the suffocating crackling of flames for a moment, before he hears the sound of footsteps, one, two three, he automatically mouths, footwork for a dance step he'll never learn, as the phone spins dizzyingly through the air, catching the corner of Sungjong's face as his eyes sparkle, whether with anger or tears Taemin can't tell and it's too late as the flames reach up to grab the phone, the screen flickering and the speakers crackling to painful screeching static as the phone melts and then darkness.
The phone falls out of Taemin's hands.
His friend comes back into the room, "ready to start the next part?" Jongin asks, grinning as he flicks on the music, and Taemin feels the nausea in his throat rise so fast at the sound of the beat, the idea of moving his body in rhythm with the song, that he throws himself half upright and towards the hall and still doesn't make it to the toilet, violent orange vomit splattering over the white tiles, his internal fire that burns as it comes back up, out into the open.
Remember me.
The cut text is from the Mo-Blue-Mix of Danger, featuring Thanh Bui.
1597
Poll