Ship/Member: seokhao Major Tags: reincarnation, dreams, death (but not graphic or sad) Additional Tags: when only one of you remembers that you're two halves of the same whole Permission to remix: sure!
title from Pretty Bones by yuele
***
In Minghao’s second first life, the dreams mean nothing. They’re just fragments, flashes of images and sensations he doesn’t recognize: warm golden skin and a heavy body wrapped greedily around his own, buildings so tall they pierce the sky and split it in two, a man who smiles and smiles and smiles at him and—
They mean nothing.
Minghao lives. He wakes and eats and attends his lessons, and so on and so on. He does it all, everything that’s expected of him, but the dreams don’t stop. They change—the man still smiles, but there are wrinkles around his eyes now, around his still smiling mouth—but every night he blows out his oil lantern and closes his eyes and he wills himself to dream.
He dreams.
And dreams.
And dreams.
Eventually, when his grandchildren are almost old enough to be parents themselves, the dreams stop, and so does he.
So it goes.
-
In Minghao’s second life, the dreams mean nothing.
-
In Minghao’s fifth life, the dreams mean nothing.
-
In Minghao’s twelfth life, the dreams mean nothing.
They mean nothing, but they’ve changed again. He dreams in colors: the eggshell blue of an open sky, the rough brown grain of waterlogged wood, the starched cream of sheets. Maybe sails.
He goes to the sea.
He likes it there, more than he ever thought he would. He thinks, in his next life, he might like to build something here. Something that he can come back to.
-
In Minghao’s thirteenth life, he builds a house with his own two hands. It’s small and drafty and sits too close to the slowly encroaching ocean, but it’s his. It should be enough.
-
In Minghao’s fifteenth life, he burns down his house.
-
In Minghao’s sixteenth life, he meets a man with a smile as wide and familiar as the horizon that stretches endlessly before them.
“Nice house,” he says to Minghao, grinning wildly as the breeze tangles covetous fingers in his hair. He’s carrying a bag thrown over one shoulder and not much else and his shirt is open at the collar and fraying, the slope of his chest and breadth of his shoulders testing the outer limits of the fabric’s capacity.
Minghao blinks in surprise and looks incredulously at the burned out ruin they’re standing in front of, bare toes digging grooves into the wet sand. A shocked giggle escapes him before he can swallow it down for the sake of decorum.
“It used to be,” Minghao says. He looks back at the man. At the gorgeous, golden strength of him. The sweetness of his open face. He’s looking at Minghao like he knows him, somehow, like he’s a wish he never expected to be granted, a star snatched down from the sky. Did he ever dream of Minghao? Did he dream of pale skin and smeared ink? The gentle lap of waves and a quiet giggle meant for only one person to hear? It makes Minghao burn, but he thinks he likes it. “I was actually thinking of trying again,” he says. He tries on a smile, something small and hesitant. The man lights up, eyes sparkling and grin widening to what would be an almost terrifying degree if he didn’t look so clearly, utterly delighted. “I could use some help, if you don’t have anywhere else to be.”
“Nowhere,” he says, eager and puppyish, the words practically tripping over themselves as they exit his mouth, “I’ve got nowhere else to be but here.”
Minghao nods, suddenly shy. “I'm Xu Minghao,” he introduces himself with a short bow.
“Lee Seokmin,” Seokmin replies, bowing sharply at the waist. When he rises and Minghao sees his face again—smiling, of course, always looking up at him and smiling, just like in his dreams—he feels something click decisively into place. “It’s so good to see you again.”
don't you go leaving me / you still got a life to go
Major Tags: reincarnation, dreams, death (but not graphic or sad)
Additional Tags: when only one of you remembers that you're two halves of the same whole
Permission to remix: sure!
title from Pretty Bones by yuele
***
In Minghao’s second first life, the dreams mean nothing. They’re just fragments, flashes of images and sensations he doesn’t recognize: warm golden skin and a heavy body wrapped greedily around his own, buildings so tall they pierce the sky and split it in two, a man who smiles and smiles and smiles at him and—
They mean nothing.
Minghao lives. He wakes and eats and attends his lessons, and so on and so on. He does it all, everything that’s expected of him, but the dreams don’t stop. They change—the man still smiles, but there are wrinkles around his eyes now, around his still smiling mouth—but every night he blows out his oil lantern and closes his eyes and he wills himself to dream.
He dreams.
And dreams.
And dreams.
Eventually, when his grandchildren are almost old enough to be parents themselves, the dreams stop, and so does he.
So it goes.
-
In Minghao’s second life, the dreams mean nothing.
-
In Minghao’s fifth life, the dreams mean nothing.
-
In Minghao’s twelfth life, the dreams mean nothing.
They mean nothing, but they’ve changed again. He dreams in colors: the eggshell blue of an open sky, the rough brown grain of waterlogged wood, the starched cream of sheets. Maybe sails.
He goes to the sea.
He likes it there, more than he ever thought he would. He thinks, in his next life, he might like to build something here. Something that he can come back to.
-
In Minghao’s thirteenth life, he builds a house with his own two hands. It’s small and drafty and sits too close to the slowly encroaching ocean, but it’s his. It should be enough.
-
In Minghao’s fifteenth life, he burns down his house.
-
In Minghao’s sixteenth life, he meets a man with a smile as wide and familiar as the horizon that stretches endlessly before them.
“Nice house,” he says to Minghao, grinning wildly as the breeze tangles covetous fingers in his hair. He’s carrying a bag thrown over one shoulder and not much else and his shirt is open at the collar and fraying, the slope of his chest and breadth of his shoulders testing the outer limits of the fabric’s capacity.
Minghao blinks in surprise and looks incredulously at the burned out ruin they’re standing in front of, bare toes digging grooves into the wet sand. A shocked giggle escapes him before he can swallow it down for the sake of decorum.
“It used to be,” Minghao says. He looks back at the man. At the gorgeous, golden strength of him. The sweetness of his open face. He’s looking at Minghao like he knows him, somehow, like he’s a wish he never expected to be granted, a star snatched down from the sky. Did he ever dream of Minghao? Did he dream of pale skin and smeared ink? The gentle lap of waves and a quiet giggle meant for only one person to hear? It makes Minghao burn, but he thinks he likes it. “I was actually thinking of trying again,” he says. He tries on a smile, something small and hesitant. The man lights up, eyes sparkling and grin widening to what would be an almost terrifying degree if he didn’t look so clearly, utterly delighted. “I could use some help, if you don’t have anywhere else to be.”
“Nowhere,” he says, eager and puppyish, the words practically tripping over themselves as they exit his mouth, “I’ve got nowhere else to be but here.”
Minghao nods, suddenly shy. “I'm Xu Minghao,” he introduces himself with a short bow.
“Lee Seokmin,” Seokmin replies, bowing sharply at the waist. When he rises and Minghao sees his face again—smiling, of course, always looking up at him and smiling, just like in his dreams—he feels something click decisively into place. “It’s so good to see you again.”