Ship/Member: gyuhao Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: finding home, vignettes, ghosts, magical realism, ambiguous, author lost control for the majority of this, implied sexual content Permission to remix: Yes
*** op i do not know how close this is to what you're imagining for this prompt. i got very carried away. some parts are ambiguous and unresolved, so i'm leaving it up to readers to decide the mcs'...backstories. in all honesty idk what this is, and it is unedited, so enjoy whatever this is that my brain conjured :) ***
The distance between the earth and its closest star is 4.35 light-years. The distance between Minghao and his home is 4.35 years.
In Paris, Île-de-France, there is an apartment that overlooks the Seine. The only landmark left of their first date. They’d only stayed for one night, but one was enough to watch the way the Seine blazed at midnight, wreathed in gold and orange, the hearth of Paris, the city of light—or love. In that one night, the two were one and the same. They’d watched the city light up on the balcony. The two of them, side by side, wine glasses in hand. Mingyu had turned Minghao’s face, so carefully and gently, like he’s afraid he might shatter if he pressed too hard. Minghao had closed the distance with bruising vigour. That night the Seine was Paris’ hearth, and Mingyu was Minghao’s.
In Florence, Italy, in a luxury apartment that they barely spare a glance for, Mingyu spreads Minghao open on the roof balcony, on a clear and warm night, the Palazzo Vecchio haloed softly against the horizon. Two flutes of champagne, each topped with a strawberry, sit untouched on the table. A pot of white orchids unfurl gracefully from a pot beside them. Gone is the gentleness. That night Mingyu presses into Minghao like he wants him to break, like he wants to push him until he’s all hairline fractures down the middle and shards in Mingyu’s hands. That night Mingyu disassembles Minghao with the goal of reassembling him. That night Minghao must’ve lost a piece of himself to Mingyu, for nothing was ever the same for him again. Or Mingyu must’ve taken a piece of him; the most crucial piece, the piece Minghao would gladly give up all the same, if it means being with Mingyu. Later Mingyu will trace Minghao’s lips in another city and think back to the shingles of the neighboring rooftops, the flatness of the cityscape and the mountains like faded watercolor in the background. Minghao will only remember the heat of Mingyu’s gaze, the coolness of the champagne glass passed between them, and the imprint of Mingyu that burned so brightly against his eyelids that Minghao could not sleep that night.
In Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise, Minghao stands by the tasseled curtains of the castle hotel and watches the aqua gem for a lake glimmer, backed by mountains whose peaks are dusted with snow. He watches as little red canoes disturb the pristine surface. He watches the outside as Mingyu watches him, infinite words trapped in the warmth of his gaze. He is smiling fondly, and Minghao turns to kiss it away. Later, Mingyu will whine and pout as Minghao giggles, because Mingyu’s hat gets blown into the water by the wind and sinks while their canoe cuts through the turquoise, little ripples of water slapping at the flanks of the canoe gently. When they pause for a breath, Minghao will turn and snap a photo of Mingyu, a little souvenir, the most candid he will have seen of Mingyu. That photo will stay in Minghao’s wallet for a long time. It’ll be the only thing he has of Mingyu.
For Minghao, home has never been stationary. In Paris, in Florence, in Banff. In Annecy, in Geneva, in Los Angeles. In New York, in Cuba, in Dubai. Wherever Mingyu is. For Minghao home has always been the hearth inside of Mingyu, the little breath of flames Mingyu presses onto the divot of Minghao’s tongue, that Minghao swallows eagerly, without hesitation. His home, he’s kept it alive, burning behind his sternum, for as long as he can. For 4 years and 3 months.
4 years and 3 months, where the only remnants of home he has left are the photo he still keeps tucked in his wallet, and the memories he shoves down his throat, chokes on, to guide him.
For his entire lifetime, Mingyu had been his home. Still is his home. His home is wherever Mingyu is.
And Mingyu is here, Minghao thinks, striding up the wide, unswept stairs. Fall has descended in France, the leaves gold, flaming red, canary yellow. La Cimetière du Père Lachaise is as beautiful as always. Mingyu is here, Minghao thinks, stopping in front of a headstone, engravings clear despite the moss and grime.
Here lies Kim Mingyu.
The man who set a heart on fire and never returned to put it back out. Minghao adds.
The distance between the earth and its closest star is 4.35 light-years. The distance between Minghao and his home is 4.35 years. 4 years and 3 months. No longer.
Mingyu is underground, amongst the stars, home.
“I’m ready to go home.” Minghao says.
The leaves ruffle in response. And then he’s gone.
Only a photo, worn and frayed around the edges, flutters to the ground. Upon closer glance, it’s of Lake Louise, the transparent turquoise lake that steals hats from tourists. There’s no one in the picture.
For Mingyu and Minghao, they were never substantial in this timeline. They were lost, they found each other, and they found their homes.
*** so there's that. there's some symbolism and motifs running through here, so if it helps, think about what fires, warmth, hearths (in particular) may represent and that might facilitate understanding. the symbolism of stars plays a role in the ending too.
Re: [FILL] distance: 4.35 years
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: finding home, vignettes, ghosts, magical realism, ambiguous, author lost control for the majority of this, implied sexual content
Permission to remix: Yes
***
op i do not know how close this is to what you're imagining for this prompt. i got very carried away. some parts are ambiguous and unresolved, so i'm leaving it up to readers to decide the mcs'...backstories.
in all honesty idk what this is, and it is unedited, so enjoy whatever this is that my brain conjured :)
***
The distance between the earth and its closest star is 4.35 light-years. The distance between Minghao and his home is 4.35 years.
In Paris, Île-de-France, there is an apartment that overlooks the Seine. The only landmark left of their first date.
They’d only stayed for one night, but one was enough to watch the way the Seine blazed at midnight, wreathed in gold and orange, the hearth of Paris, the city of light—or love. In that one night, the two were one and the same.
They’d watched the city light up on the balcony. The two of them, side by side, wine glasses in hand. Mingyu had turned Minghao’s face, so carefully and gently, like he’s afraid he might shatter if he pressed too hard. Minghao had closed the distance with bruising vigour.
That night the Seine was Paris’ hearth, and Mingyu was Minghao’s.
In Florence, Italy, in a luxury apartment that they barely spare a glance for, Mingyu spreads Minghao open on the roof balcony, on a clear and warm night, the Palazzo Vecchio haloed softly against the horizon. Two flutes of champagne, each topped with a strawberry, sit untouched on the table. A pot of white orchids unfurl gracefully from a pot beside them.
Gone is the gentleness. That night Mingyu presses into Minghao like he wants him to break, like he wants to push him until he’s all hairline fractures down the middle and shards in Mingyu’s hands. That night Mingyu disassembles Minghao with the goal of reassembling him. That night Minghao must’ve lost a piece of himself to Mingyu, for nothing was ever the same for him again. Or Mingyu must’ve taken a piece of him; the most crucial piece, the piece Minghao would gladly give up all the same, if it means being with Mingyu.
Later Mingyu will trace Minghao’s lips in another city and think back to the shingles of the neighboring rooftops, the flatness of the cityscape and the mountains like faded watercolor in the background.
Minghao will only remember the heat of Mingyu’s gaze, the coolness of the champagne glass passed between them, and the imprint of Mingyu that burned so brightly against his eyelids that Minghao could not sleep that night.
In Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise, Minghao stands by the tasseled curtains of the castle hotel and watches the aqua gem for a lake glimmer, backed by mountains whose peaks are dusted with snow. He watches as little red canoes disturb the pristine surface. He watches the outside as Mingyu watches him, infinite words trapped in the warmth of his gaze. He is smiling fondly, and Minghao turns to kiss it away.
Later, Mingyu will whine and pout as Minghao giggles, because Mingyu’s hat gets blown into the water by the wind and sinks while their canoe cuts through the turquoise, little ripples of water slapping at the flanks of the canoe gently.
When they pause for a breath, Minghao will turn and snap a photo of Mingyu, a little souvenir, the most candid he will have seen of Mingyu.
That photo will stay in Minghao’s wallet for a long time. It’ll be the only thing he has of Mingyu.
For Minghao, home has never been stationary. In Paris, in Florence, in Banff. In Annecy, in Geneva, in Los Angeles. In New York, in Cuba, in Dubai. Wherever Mingyu is.
For Minghao home has always been the hearth inside of Mingyu, the little breath of flames Mingyu presses onto the divot of Minghao’s tongue, that Minghao swallows eagerly, without hesitation. His home, he’s kept it alive, burning behind his sternum, for as long as he can. For 4 years and 3 months.
4 years and 3 months, where the only remnants of home he has left are the photo he still keeps tucked in his wallet, and the memories he shoves down his throat, chokes on, to guide him.
For his entire lifetime, Mingyu had been his home. Still is his home. His home is wherever Mingyu is.
And Mingyu is here, Minghao thinks, striding up the wide, unswept stairs. Fall has descended in France, the leaves gold, flaming red, canary yellow. La Cimetière du Père Lachaise is as beautiful as always. Mingyu is here, Minghao thinks, stopping in front of a headstone, engravings clear despite the moss and grime.
Here lies Kim Mingyu.
The man who set a heart on fire and never returned to put it back out. Minghao adds.
The distance between the earth and its closest star is 4.35 light-years. The distance between Minghao and his home is 4.35 years. 4 years and 3 months. No longer.
Mingyu is underground, amongst the stars, home.
“I’m ready to go home.” Minghao says.
The leaves ruffle in response. And then he’s gone.
Only a photo, worn and frayed around the edges, flutters to the ground. Upon closer glance, it’s of Lake Louise, the transparent turquoise lake that steals hats from tourists. There’s no one in the picture.
For Mingyu and Minghao, they were never substantial in this timeline. They were lost, they found each other, and they found their homes.
***
so there's that. there's some symbolism and motifs running through here, so if it helps, think about what fires, warmth, hearths (in particular) may represent and that might facilitate understanding. the symbolism of stars plays a role in the ending too.