(no subject)
firefly
minho/taemin, pg-13, 1020ⓦ
Note: Quote by Italo Calvino.
We were full of what they call love, that rough discovering and seeking of each other, that sharp taste of one another, you know, love.
*
He's a glitter of gold in a nightclub crammed into the traffic jam that is Seoul, dancing in a crush of bodies, bright eyes lined with kohl. Minho watches him in between shots of whiskey, swallowing around the slow burn. The shape of his laughing mouth is open and inviting; his shirt is loose, sleeveless. Minho wants to curl his fingers into that dark fabric, leave the whorls of his fingerprints on those hipbones.
Two nights later, Minho still doesn't know his name; he's in the bathroom at the back of the club, watching him fix the crumpled collar of his jacket through the mirror. His gaze slides to meet Minho's in the mirror as he's adjusting his bracelet, and he smiles, slow and siamese. Minho is suddenly aware of the music filtering in from the room outside, heavy on the bass; he reaches to turn off the faucet, something (anything) to distract him from the boy in the mirror. When Minho looks up again, he's gone.
His hair is dyed a dark russet; Minho imagines the way it would look like fire when caught in the sunlight, but it's dark now and he's fitting syllables to the flushed cheeks and tangled hair and heated proximity of mouths: lee, tae, min.
There are a thousand different words to justify what he's doing, here, now: gravity, inertia, metaphysics; when they break apart, Taemin's mouth is still tilted towards Minho's, eyes shuttered in a way that lends him bravura. "I'd like," Taemin breathes, so close his breath fogs up the air between them, "if you did that again."
The lights behind Taemin blur, eclipse, blink out when he leans forward. For a moment, there is no one, nothing but this: Taemin's eyes fluttering shut and the ragged swell of lungs, everything just for Minho.
Taemin is all angles, sharp lines in his cheekbones and boy's knees, frail collarbones and elbows that dig into Minho's stomach and corners of his mouth that turn up to say, kiss me, kiss me.
He is beautiful when he is sweaty and wild-eyed, heart beating in time with the bass, shouting over the music, and when he is quiet, swathed in the sheets of Minho's bed, his hair tickling Minho's nose, the pale unexplored skin of his stomach, revealed in millimetres when he moves.
He is a whirlwind: always in motion, emotions shifting in the time it takes for Minho to blink. At night, Minho's fingers trace the bones that line Taemin's slender arms; he thinks about growing pains, about how to measure the speed at which Taemin lives. How Taemin's too young to die, but it's not stopping him from trying.
(Blond hair, leather jacket, speaking in a voice too low to hear over the music. He has Taemin backed up against a wall, but Taemin looks anything but caged; when Taemin says something, he grins, sharp and wild. He nudges Taemin's chin up with a knuckle and kisses him, teeth tugging on Taemin's lower lip, like it's the most natural thing in the world.)
Taemin's wearing a leather jacket, loose-fitted. He shakes a cigarette out of the pack he's holding, searches in an inside pocket of the jacket for a lighter. His movements are slow and deliberate, unlit cigarette perched between his lips, because he knows Minho's watching. He flicks the lighter twice; it sparks and lights, white and wavering.
The sky is clear, almost spring-like; the grass they're sitting on is a little damp. Minho waits until Taemin has exhaled to pluck the cigarette from between his fingers and kiss him, a quiet fermata. Minho's never liked the smell of cigarette smoke, but the taste of it on Taemin's tongue is dizzying, clouding his mouth and his head like fog.
Taemin smirks when they break apart, even though his own breath is coming a little less easy than before. When he reaches for the cigarette, Minho steals a glance at the fading mark on his neck, just above the collar of the thin cotton shirt he's wearing. (A skinny boy with cupid lips, slinking out of the bathroom with feline grace just moments before Taemin walks out of an unlocked stall, pupils dilated and lips swollen.)
For a while, there is silence: Taemin letting the cigarette burn out, perched between his fingers; Minho watching the wind blow currents into the grass.
"I know what you want," Taemin says, abruptly. Minho glances over, but Taemin is stubbing the cigarette out, crushing it against a rock with an almost belligerent single-mindedness. "You want kisses goodnight and cliché dates and I love yous-"
"I want you," Minho interrupts, but Taemin laughs, eyes bright. "No, you don't."
"I don't believe in love," Taemin says, voice tight, bitter, angry, afraid-a thousand different things at once, impossible to dissect. And then, as if he's trying to be gentle: "You should find somebody who does."
"I want you," Minho repeats, and Taemin looks him in the eyes almost involuntarily - hunter, hunted. Caught, and hunting.
A hummingbird's wings can beat up to eighty times a second, a constant blur of motion. Always hovering, but never stopping - sometimes it takes the full weight of Minho to drag Taemin down, a slow, honeying movement. The heart in Taemin's ribcage, Minho thinks, hums against the steady one-two of his own: burning through oxygen and reaching for Minho's air, heart, everything.
It's a cicada summer. Days blend into nights, time measured by the smooth, uninterrupted turn of the ceiling fan. Outside the club, he can still feel the music, like thunder under his feet. Taemin is leaning against the wall, watching him draw closer. Minho walks, slowly, watches like he's counting the seconds between the thunder and the lightning. In a moment he will push himself away from the wall and they will enter the club, inches like miles between them. Taemin will disappear, will be swallowed alive, and Minho will wait, will ask a question Taemin will say yes to, and tomorrow they will do it all over again, yes or no? like a broken record, catching, over and over again, yes, yes, yes.
minho/taemin, pg-13, 1020ⓦ
Note: Quote by Italo Calvino.
We were full of what they call love, that rough discovering and seeking of each other, that sharp taste of one another, you know, love.
*
He's a glitter of gold in a nightclub crammed into the traffic jam that is Seoul, dancing in a crush of bodies, bright eyes lined with kohl. Minho watches him in between shots of whiskey, swallowing around the slow burn. The shape of his laughing mouth is open and inviting; his shirt is loose, sleeveless. Minho wants to curl his fingers into that dark fabric, leave the whorls of his fingerprints on those hipbones.
Two nights later, Minho still doesn't know his name; he's in the bathroom at the back of the club, watching him fix the crumpled collar of his jacket through the mirror. His gaze slides to meet Minho's in the mirror as he's adjusting his bracelet, and he smiles, slow and siamese. Minho is suddenly aware of the music filtering in from the room outside, heavy on the bass; he reaches to turn off the faucet, something (anything) to distract him from the boy in the mirror. When Minho looks up again, he's gone.
His hair is dyed a dark russet; Minho imagines the way it would look like fire when caught in the sunlight, but it's dark now and he's fitting syllables to the flushed cheeks and tangled hair and heated proximity of mouths: lee, tae, min.
There are a thousand different words to justify what he's doing, here, now: gravity, inertia, metaphysics; when they break apart, Taemin's mouth is still tilted towards Minho's, eyes shuttered in a way that lends him bravura. "I'd like," Taemin breathes, so close his breath fogs up the air between them, "if you did that again."
The lights behind Taemin blur, eclipse, blink out when he leans forward. For a moment, there is no one, nothing but this: Taemin's eyes fluttering shut and the ragged swell of lungs, everything just for Minho.
Taemin is all angles, sharp lines in his cheekbones and boy's knees, frail collarbones and elbows that dig into Minho's stomach and corners of his mouth that turn up to say, kiss me, kiss me.
He is beautiful when he is sweaty and wild-eyed, heart beating in time with the bass, shouting over the music, and when he is quiet, swathed in the sheets of Minho's bed, his hair tickling Minho's nose, the pale unexplored skin of his stomach, revealed in millimetres when he moves.
He is a whirlwind: always in motion, emotions shifting in the time it takes for Minho to blink. At night, Minho's fingers trace the bones that line Taemin's slender arms; he thinks about growing pains, about how to measure the speed at which Taemin lives. How Taemin's too young to die, but it's not stopping him from trying.
(Blond hair, leather jacket, speaking in a voice too low to hear over the music. He has Taemin backed up against a wall, but Taemin looks anything but caged; when Taemin says something, he grins, sharp and wild. He nudges Taemin's chin up with a knuckle and kisses him, teeth tugging on Taemin's lower lip, like it's the most natural thing in the world.)
Taemin's wearing a leather jacket, loose-fitted. He shakes a cigarette out of the pack he's holding, searches in an inside pocket of the jacket for a lighter. His movements are slow and deliberate, unlit cigarette perched between his lips, because he knows Minho's watching. He flicks the lighter twice; it sparks and lights, white and wavering.
The sky is clear, almost spring-like; the grass they're sitting on is a little damp. Minho waits until Taemin has exhaled to pluck the cigarette from between his fingers and kiss him, a quiet fermata. Minho's never liked the smell of cigarette smoke, but the taste of it on Taemin's tongue is dizzying, clouding his mouth and his head like fog.
Taemin smirks when they break apart, even though his own breath is coming a little less easy than before. When he reaches for the cigarette, Minho steals a glance at the fading mark on his neck, just above the collar of the thin cotton shirt he's wearing. (A skinny boy with cupid lips, slinking out of the bathroom with feline grace just moments before Taemin walks out of an unlocked stall, pupils dilated and lips swollen.)
For a while, there is silence: Taemin letting the cigarette burn out, perched between his fingers; Minho watching the wind blow currents into the grass.
"I know what you want," Taemin says, abruptly. Minho glances over, but Taemin is stubbing the cigarette out, crushing it against a rock with an almost belligerent single-mindedness. "You want kisses goodnight and cliché dates and I love yous-"
"I want you," Minho interrupts, but Taemin laughs, eyes bright. "No, you don't."
"I don't believe in love," Taemin says, voice tight, bitter, angry, afraid-a thousand different things at once, impossible to dissect. And then, as if he's trying to be gentle: "You should find somebody who does."
"I want you," Minho repeats, and Taemin looks him in the eyes almost involuntarily - hunter, hunted. Caught, and hunting.
A hummingbird's wings can beat up to eighty times a second, a constant blur of motion. Always hovering, but never stopping - sometimes it takes the full weight of Minho to drag Taemin down, a slow, honeying movement. The heart in Taemin's ribcage, Minho thinks, hums against the steady one-two of his own: burning through oxygen and reaching for Minho's air, heart, everything.
It's a cicada summer. Days blend into nights, time measured by the smooth, uninterrupted turn of the ceiling fan. Outside the club, he can still feel the music, like thunder under his feet. Taemin is leaning against the wall, watching him draw closer. Minho walks, slowly, watches like he's counting the seconds between the thunder and the lightning. In a moment he will push himself away from the wall and they will enter the club, inches like miles between them. Taemin will disappear, will be swallowed alive, and Minho will wait, will ask a question Taemin will say yes to, and tomorrow they will do it all over again, yes or no? like a broken record, catching, over and over again, yes, yes, yes.