noir de blancs
Title: Noir de Blancs
Pairing: Minho/Taemin
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Champain's for celebrating.
Note: So guys, this story isn't exactly light. I'm not saying it's the suicidal kind of gloomy, but it's definetely not fluff. It's my entry for shawol_haven's seventeenth challenge, inspired by the quote prompt. Also my first 2min ever. Aaand an AU. Ish.
Noir de Blancs
Happy birthday to you happy birthday to you happy birthday dear Taeminnie happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you happy.
It’s Taemin’s birthday every Friday and sometimes Wednesdays too, if he’s in the mood.
Happy.
Hyung, are you happy.
I am so happy, hyung, Taemin says.
I want marshmallows.
I want you to sit still now because some of that glass went really deep. Ok? Can you do that? Taemin-ah.
You should just suck it out, hyung. Like poison, like you’d do if a snake bit me. Would you do that for me hyung?
You know I would.
I know you would.
Why don’t you suck it out then.
This is glass, Taemin. It will cut my tongue.
I do that some times. Should I feel bad?
About what.
About biting you.
You shouldn’t feel bad about that.
I don’t feel bad about the other stuff.
I know.
The shard of mirror comes out intact, a bloody triangular shape with vicious angles, reflecting the white ceiling. Taemin hisses through his teeth and his fingers jerk, once, twice, clutching at the air.
Owwwwwwww.
He sounds amazed.
________________________________________
Minho wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of screaming and knows exactly whose it is.
He shoves Kibum across the room and hopes to hell he’ll stay there, fucking stay there.
There’s moonlight and blood spilled on the kitchen tiles and Taemin’s chewed on a champagne glass.
Minho handles him with the usual restrained brutality, makes him sit on the bathtub and stick out his tongue, probes the inside of his red mouth with his fingers and tries to rinse it with water and vinegar. Taemin thrashes from under him, bites and kicks but he’s not strong enough to fight him off, and Minho hopes he never will be. When Minho asks did you swallow any of it Taemin doesn’t answer, so Minho sticks his index finger down his throat and makes him puke all his marshmallows out into the bathtub.
He feeds Taemin three painkillers and puts him to sleep on the couch. He pretends they’re brothers and this is just a stomach bug. He’s counting breaths and making coffee when Kibum walks in with tear tracks down his face.
Kibum asks if he made him vomit and Minho nods.
You could have made things worse, you know. If he had swallowed any glass it could have sliced through his throat coming back up.
Minho doesn’t know if that’s true. Doesn’t know if it would be so terrible after all.
You could have killed him, Kibum whispers and Minho pretends it’s his way of saying thank you.
He’s used to tuning out Kibum’s monologue about where Taemin should be, in a white room with his arms hugging his chest. Kibum says you can’t ignore reality without consequences but Minho knows he’s full of shit.
You bought him marshmallows, he says, and Kibum looks away, guilty.
________________________________________
There are marshmallows swimming in his hot chocolate because Kibum said have to finish them up, can’t look at them. Taemin’s on the living room floor, in his jeans and hoodie, and he grins when they lock eyes, round cheeks and angel wings. It’s his birthday today.
Minho wonders if there’s an apology there, between Taemin’s lips but decides it’s just the way his bottom lip is cut in the middle, the angry black line not healing fast enough cos he keeps smiling and opening it up.
Minho sits on the floor next to him and sips his chocolate, wishing it were coffee, wishing he had slept in the past three days, wishing he were still mad. Or ever.
Why did you do it, Minho asks, Can I have some, Taemin asks.
Minho says no and tells himself it’s because Taemin’s mouth is still full of open gashes and even though Kibum said yes to chicken stew and orange juice he hasn’t said anything about hot chocolate and Minho doesn’t want to deal with Mr. Almighty, not right now.
The truth is a lot more juvenile and vindictive, cool words huh, it’s a no, you can’t have any of my hot chocolate when you almost swallowed a mouthful of glass, that’s not the way of the world.
Taemin looks affronted. Minho thinks it serves him right, and drinks, sickly sweet candy melting under his tongue.
You’ll give me if I tell you why.
It’s not a question and Minho starts to say you don’t make the rules here, but it would be a lie.
Why. Taemin smiles and blood pools in the groove on his lip. He doesn’t seem to notice.
Little babies touch things to see if they’ll hurt, right? When I was three, I caught a lamp in my hands and it burnt so bad I never touched one again.
Taemin you are not a kid.
You are not a kid!
Taemin catches his wrist in that injured hand and the grip is violent, unapologetic.
I need to know what hurts, he says.
Lightbulbs hurt, stovetops hurt, needles hurt, mirrors hurt.
Minho remembers kissing papercuts and burns and pinpricks, broken wrists and.
Champagne glasses. Hurt.
Taemin blinks rapidly and it’s mesmerizing up close, twin butterflies fighting against captivity. Minho remembers the butterfly stitches above that left eyebrow from three months ago.
Hot chocolate too, sometimes.
It all hurts.
Of course it’s not a kiss. It’s assessing the damage like he always does, keeping track. One cut on the ridge of Taemin’s mouth, a few shallow slashes at the inside of his cheeks, that place where his tongue is split at the tip, curve deep and crescent-shaped. This is taking the pain away, licking, laving, sucking it out like venom, like self-poisoning.
Taemin sighs and clutches at Minho’s face, dusting butterfly kisses across his cheekbones, butterfly stitches butterfly lashes butterfly nets.
You don’t, he says against Minho’s mouth. You don’t.
He sounds amazed.
A/N: Blanc de blancs is a type of champagne, as is blanc de noirs. Noir de blancs is not, at least to my knowledge. So the title is my idea of a play on words. You already know I fail at life. Being on vacation for a month didn't change a thing.
Pairing: Minho/Taemin
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Champain's for celebrating.
Note: So guys, this story isn't exactly light. I'm not saying it's the suicidal kind of gloomy, but it's definetely not fluff. It's my entry for shawol_haven's seventeenth challenge, inspired by the quote prompt. Also my first 2min ever. Aaand an AU. Ish.
Noir de Blancs
Happy birthday to you happy birthday to you happy birthday dear Taeminnie happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you happy.
It’s Taemin’s birthday every Friday and sometimes Wednesdays too, if he’s in the mood.
Happy.
Hyung, are you happy.
I am so happy, hyung, Taemin says.
I want marshmallows.
I want you to sit still now because some of that glass went really deep. Ok? Can you do that? Taemin-ah.
You should just suck it out, hyung. Like poison, like you’d do if a snake bit me. Would you do that for me hyung?
You know I would.
I know you would.
Why don’t you suck it out then.
This is glass, Taemin. It will cut my tongue.
I do that some times. Should I feel bad?
About what.
About biting you.
You shouldn’t feel bad about that.
I don’t feel bad about the other stuff.
I know.
The shard of mirror comes out intact, a bloody triangular shape with vicious angles, reflecting the white ceiling. Taemin hisses through his teeth and his fingers jerk, once, twice, clutching at the air.
Owwwwwwww.
He sounds amazed.
________________________________________
Minho wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of screaming and knows exactly whose it is.
He shoves Kibum across the room and hopes to hell he’ll stay there, fucking stay there.
There’s moonlight and blood spilled on the kitchen tiles and Taemin’s chewed on a champagne glass.
Minho handles him with the usual restrained brutality, makes him sit on the bathtub and stick out his tongue, probes the inside of his red mouth with his fingers and tries to rinse it with water and vinegar. Taemin thrashes from under him, bites and kicks but he’s not strong enough to fight him off, and Minho hopes he never will be. When Minho asks did you swallow any of it Taemin doesn’t answer, so Minho sticks his index finger down his throat and makes him puke all his marshmallows out into the bathtub.
He feeds Taemin three painkillers and puts him to sleep on the couch. He pretends they’re brothers and this is just a stomach bug. He’s counting breaths and making coffee when Kibum walks in with tear tracks down his face.
Kibum asks if he made him vomit and Minho nods.
You could have made things worse, you know. If he had swallowed any glass it could have sliced through his throat coming back up.
Minho doesn’t know if that’s true. Doesn’t know if it would be so terrible after all.
You could have killed him, Kibum whispers and Minho pretends it’s his way of saying thank you.
He’s used to tuning out Kibum’s monologue about where Taemin should be, in a white room with his arms hugging his chest. Kibum says you can’t ignore reality without consequences but Minho knows he’s full of shit.
You bought him marshmallows, he says, and Kibum looks away, guilty.
________________________________________
There are marshmallows swimming in his hot chocolate because Kibum said have to finish them up, can’t look at them. Taemin’s on the living room floor, in his jeans and hoodie, and he grins when they lock eyes, round cheeks and angel wings. It’s his birthday today.
Minho wonders if there’s an apology there, between Taemin’s lips but decides it’s just the way his bottom lip is cut in the middle, the angry black line not healing fast enough cos he keeps smiling and opening it up.
Minho sits on the floor next to him and sips his chocolate, wishing it were coffee, wishing he had slept in the past three days, wishing he were still mad. Or ever.
Why did you do it, Minho asks, Can I have some, Taemin asks.
Minho says no and tells himself it’s because Taemin’s mouth is still full of open gashes and even though Kibum said yes to chicken stew and orange juice he hasn’t said anything about hot chocolate and Minho doesn’t want to deal with Mr. Almighty, not right now.
The truth is a lot more juvenile and vindictive, cool words huh, it’s a no, you can’t have any of my hot chocolate when you almost swallowed a mouthful of glass, that’s not the way of the world.
Taemin looks affronted. Minho thinks it serves him right, and drinks, sickly sweet candy melting under his tongue.
You’ll give me if I tell you why.
It’s not a question and Minho starts to say you don’t make the rules here, but it would be a lie.
Why. Taemin smiles and blood pools in the groove on his lip. He doesn’t seem to notice.
Little babies touch things to see if they’ll hurt, right? When I was three, I caught a lamp in my hands and it burnt so bad I never touched one again.
Taemin you are not a kid.
You are not a kid!
Taemin catches his wrist in that injured hand and the grip is violent, unapologetic.
I need to know what hurts, he says.
Lightbulbs hurt, stovetops hurt, needles hurt, mirrors hurt.
Minho remembers kissing papercuts and burns and pinpricks, broken wrists and.
Champagne glasses. Hurt.
Taemin blinks rapidly and it’s mesmerizing up close, twin butterflies fighting against captivity. Minho remembers the butterfly stitches above that left eyebrow from three months ago.
Hot chocolate too, sometimes.
It all hurts.
Of course it’s not a kiss. It’s assessing the damage like he always does, keeping track. One cut on the ridge of Taemin’s mouth, a few shallow slashes at the inside of his cheeks, that place where his tongue is split at the tip, curve deep and crescent-shaped. This is taking the pain away, licking, laving, sucking it out like venom, like self-poisoning.
Taemin sighs and clutches at Minho’s face, dusting butterfly kisses across his cheekbones, butterfly stitches butterfly lashes butterfly nets.
You don’t, he says against Minho’s mouth. You don’t.
He sounds amazed.
A/N: Blanc de blancs is a type of champagne, as is blanc de noirs. Noir de blancs is not, at least to my knowledge. So the title is my idea of a play on words. You already know I fail at life. Being on vacation for a month didn't change a thing.