Ship/Member: Minghao/ Yixing (EXO) Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: idolverse/canonverse, unhealthy relationships, death as a metaphor for breakups Permission to remix: Yes word count: 400, gunning for that spot~
A/N: Apparently I'm making writing this ship for 17hols an annual thing, sorry for starting us off with a crossover pairing but this grabbed me and took me like thirty minutes to write so. If it's too vague, that's my excuse.
***
Don’t read my eulogy when I’m no longer here to hear it, Yixing liked to say. Love me when I’m here, don’t love me when I’m gone, his voice boomed across the stadium, sparking fires under Minghao’s skin through the static of his earphones.
Elbows-deep into the sandpit of the playground where Yixing first kissed him, Minghao asks the dirt lining his nails: then why’d you leave before I had the chance to write it?
The exorcism in Beijing takes the longest. Minghao bids his time writing, dancing, forgetting.
The years don’t weather the engraving on the tombstone when Minghao finally arrives.
Don’t love me when I’m gone, it haunts him, the six measured steps between them on set as Yixing leads, everyone else follows.
Two years later Minghao finds yet another Yixing in Shanghai, who sees, across the same six steps the same boy he left behind—dancing.
Seoul’s ghosts are innumerable. Tucked into rented studio buildings, abandoned green rooms and restaurants Junhui hunts out in Jongno only to catch the flash of recognition in Minghao’s eyes.
Sometimes they crawl out of the woodworks, out of loose lips and trade secrets shared between people who know better than to expect miracles out of dead-end streets. Minghao can only pretend, reminded as he is yet again he can’t expect people to mourn that which they have no memory of.
Don’t love me when I’m gone.
Then don’t leave, Minghao wishes he had screamed, wishes he had clutched at the lowering coffin, unearthed the still-warm flesh and pleaded it back to life.
If Seoul is a cenotaph, Minghao is its sole crypt-keeper.
Minghao returns home dreaming of freedom.
Don’t love me when I’m gone.
Idiot, he thinks now. It’s the other way round. There’s nowhere to go until they’re done loving you.
He drinks his tea. He dances with his mother on the balcony. He enquiries after the living.
The house is a newborn, holding no history of his childhood, yet the face staring back at him in the mirror is ten years too young.
Don’t love me when I’m gone.
The part that goes unsaid? The dead will stay dead and you’ll live frozen at the age you stopped growing out of love.
Minghao cradles the mirror’s frame with his mud-stained hands and asks the ghost standing behind it: why’d you leave before I had the chance to kill you?
[FILL] what was left when that fire was gone?
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: idolverse/canonverse, unhealthy relationships, death as a metaphor for breakups
Permission to remix: Yes
word count: 400, gunning for that spot~
A/N: Apparently I'm making writing this ship for 17hols an annual thing, sorry for starting us off with a crossover pairing but this grabbed me and took me like thirty minutes to write so. If it's too vague, that's my excuse.
***
Don’t read my eulogy when I’m no longer here to hear it, Yixing liked to say.
Love me when I’m here, don’t love me when I’m gone, his voice boomed across the stadium, sparking fires under Minghao’s skin through the static of his earphones.
Elbows-deep into the sandpit of the playground where Yixing first kissed him, Minghao asks the dirt lining his nails: then why’d you leave before I had the chance to write it?
The exorcism in Beijing takes the longest. Minghao bids his time writing, dancing, forgetting.
The years don’t weather the engraving on the tombstone when Minghao finally arrives.
Don’t love me when I’m gone, it haunts him, the six measured steps between them on set as Yixing leads, everyone else follows.
Two years later Minghao finds yet another Yixing in Shanghai, who sees, across the same six steps the same boy he left behind—dancing.
Seoul’s ghosts are innumerable. Tucked into rented studio buildings, abandoned green rooms and restaurants Junhui hunts out in Jongno only to catch the flash of recognition in Minghao’s eyes.
Sometimes they crawl out of the woodworks, out of loose lips and trade secrets shared between people who know better than to expect miracles out of dead-end streets. Minghao can only pretend, reminded as he is yet again he can’t expect people to mourn that which they have no memory of.
Don’t love me when I’m gone.
Then don’t leave, Minghao wishes he had screamed, wishes he had clutched at the lowering coffin, unearthed the still-warm flesh and pleaded it back to life.
If Seoul is a cenotaph, Minghao is its sole crypt-keeper.
Minghao returns home dreaming of freedom.
Don’t love me when I’m gone.
Idiot, he thinks now. It’s the other way round. There’s nowhere to go until they’re done loving you.
He drinks his tea. He dances with his mother on the balcony. He enquiries after the living.
The house is a newborn, holding no history of his childhood, yet the face staring back at him in the mirror is ten years too young.
Don’t love me when I’m gone.
The part that goes unsaid? The dead will stay dead and you’ll live frozen at the age you stopped growing out of love.
Minghao cradles the mirror’s frame with his mud-stained hands and asks the ghost standing behind it: why’d you leave before I had the chance to kill you?