If you are still doing the ship and number at thing, can you do XiuChen (Xiumin x Chen), and #1 (soulmates au)? Thank you and I love this blog so much!
Title: Light of smiles, dark of cries and grey of ashes
Pairing: Xiuchen
Genere: Fluff, slight angst
Rating and warnings: nc-17 for drug abuse, self harm and mentions of death (none affect Jongdae or Minseok)
Prompt: SEND ME A SHIP AND A NUMBER AND I’LL WRITE A SHORT FIC
Summary: Human kind is cursed to only see the colors black, white and grey during their whole life. Unless of course, one finds their soulmate, then the world shall spring into color in front your very own eyes
Word count: 1850~
They saythings aren’t always black or white, that one has many options, many shades andmixtures to choose from, to not always stick to what is right and what iswrong, neutralism is a nice and comfortable zone, grey isn’t bad, it lets onesee from a distant point of view and so many more arguments that still don’t makeit worth it. Don’t make worth a world with only lack or excess of light, wherecolor is imaginary, a dream, a desire, something one craves more than anything.Humanity is cursed to be born completely color blind, in the most literal way,only black, white and the dull, boring, ashy grey.
Cries areblack and smiles are white, the rest is mere smoke, the color of everything isjust dust, and no one can do anything, scientists can’t find a rational cure, onethat is explained by physics and chemistry, one that actually makes sense andis logical to be documented for the history to admire. However, of course there’sa catch to this flawed and damned nature: love. As simple, cliché, ridiculousas it sounds, the only thing that seems to reverse and end with the sightproblem, and therefor, many others caused by the deprivation of color isfinding your soulmate.
Everyone isborn with that cognitive problem, but it isn’t chronic, it doesn’t lastforever, it isn’t supposed to be eternal, for there’s a catch: if one findstheir soulmate, the curse shall break and the world shall bloom into color. Yes,completely fairy tale like, right? The type of story one would half whisper toa sleepy kid that is yawning the world goodbye for another day, the one thatmakes the heart flicker with hope and desire. Everyone wants the soulmate, forcenturies and millenniums mankind has only thought of that other person Zeus partedus from when he created us and divided us. The motivation didn’t cease, eachindividual’s subconscious hinted them who their soulmate was. Keyword: hint, theyhad a voice, they had a smell and even a touch the identified them as the one, but, when people woke up thesoulmate was gone. The only thing the person of your dreams lacked was a face.
Frustrationand irritation sprung because of that, society found that it’s easy to usedrugs, a huge contraband market spread like a spider web all over the world,countries forming part of the illegal affairs knowingly, the pills sold onpharmacies for the most desperate, expensive as one’s kidney, they weren’t anexact cure, in fact it was a poison, as much as one could see in a pastel liketone every color, it lasted only for a few hours, forcing people to consumemore and, in consequence ending their life. The majority of deaths during thepast decade was caused by the constant consumption of that liquid or suicides.People go mad when you take away joy from their eyes.
Jongdaegulped down when he walked pass the store, the cross above the crystal door withbeating lights and patterns reflecting on his cheekbones as he kept walking.His mother ended her life after taking three bottles of the poison one afterthe other, just like one drinks water, her husband wasn’t her soulmate but shethought he’ll love her forever. Colorless lives end up leading people to self-destruction,trying to find some sort of entertainment to feel the dull void, his father wasself-harm, his mother: drinks, Jondae’s: art.
He enrolledin college, major in Belles Arts. Each page of the books assigned were his ownpersonal addictive substance, classes were robotic like but he had always hadbooks, books were meant to be black and white, the words were calming andsoothing, they told him stories of artists that lived a very long time ago,deities no one believed in anymore, and every single tale was better than the soulmatebullshit. Sculpture was made to be white, pure, and even if they weren’t likepaitings, they screamed so loud to him that it was as if he could see beyondthat, beyond the shades and the lights, he saw the life behind the work.
Needless tosay, museums were his home rather than that plastic, all white and luminous apartmentthe government provided him after his second year of college, when he was leftorphan. He mourned, but didn’t cry, when one doesn’t see color, one has moretrouble to feel, to have extreme feelings, at some point to even have the brinkof a spark of an emotion. Poker faces and furrows, that’s what his society was allabout. Humor was hard to comprehend, only made by people who were actuallyhappy, who had someone waiting for them with their arms open and a smile ontheir lips.
The receptionistgreeted him with a nod, at that point they knew each other by the sound oftheir footsteps, their conversations always fascinating, but excitement neverin their voices. Jondae spent his days inside those walls covered by large andheavy curtains that displayed works of art so beautiful one could forget aboutanything but the wonder they held. Skipping class wasn’t frowned upon, or atleast so he thought but no one seemed to change from that eyebrow knittedexpression, not even a cringe or a curling smile, so he shrugged and kept withhis daily shenanigans.
Usually hewas alone, sometimes a silent group of middle scholars would pass by him withtheir electronic guides and their sepulchral silence, sometimes and old coupleholding hands, sometimes another student like him getting ready to copy the artpiece in front of them. But he never, in his life, hand seen a small boy, or soit looked like. Hands in his pockets, head looking upwards, his fair hair(Jongdae couldn’t tell what color they’d be but probably blonde) flying backwardsat the motion. A sudden thought shook Jondae, if the kid had fair hair, maybehe could see color, maybe he could tell him which color was which in somepaintings, just for mere curiosity.
So hedecided to give it a shot, the glasses of the other up the bridge of his nose,his lips motionless in a thin line. The more Jondae stepped closer to theother, the more he realized the boy looked actually older than him, maybe justa couple of years, but the way his jaw clenched, and his shoulders widened andhis expression tensed, Jondae thought that maybe, he was just as blind as him.Even so, he kept walking, he wasn’t handling his body, he realized, he wasactually moving pushed by some other sort of force, and there was no stopping.His legs moved one after the other, like a robot, like the limbs weren’t his anymore.His sweaty palms rushed through his curly hair, saliva hot down his dryingthroat.
Just onemore step, shoulder to shoulder with the other, hands behind his back, headtipping to look at the huge painting. One of many of Rubens the museum hadbought, it was dramatic and dark, the expressions of the demons down underwhere of pain, mischief and despair, the angels were peaceful, calm, and thehumans concerned, but some smiled even in the middle of the confusion.
It was nowor never, Jondae turned to look at the fair haired boy. And he caught hisstare.
White.
Black.
Grey.
Bloom.
Everythingspun, his eyes itched as if a nest of wasps had attacked him, there was snotrunning down his nose and tears down his cheeks, his knees impacted with thefloor and his heartbeat rate increased so quickly so fast Jondae was waitingfor his left arm to stop responding. But it didn’t, hand clutched on his chestas his lungs coughed exhales and welcomed intermittent and sharp inhales. Hisother arm around his middle, his stomach was rebuking every meal he had evereaten and it hurt, spikes clenched the organ against itself.
Andsuddenly it was gone. There hadn’t been screams, or blood, just pain. Andcolor.
He had seenthe green of his childhood when the grass grew for spring in the front yard,the yellow of his mother’s hair even if she wasn’t aware, the blue of the skywhen he tried to find meaning and form in the clouds, the red of the cherrieshe used to place on his ears as earrings, the orange of high school bag and thebrown of the mud where they used to play soccer. He saw the white of thesmiles, the black of the cries, the grey of the ashes and the color ofeverything.
The other’shair was pink, bright pink, his glasses golden and his eyes brown as chestnuts.His shirt had a drawing with pinks, purples and black. Both their trousers wereblack but their shoes were ones red the others lilac. Jongdae helped the otherup, sweat still shining in his forehead, eyes open wide, sitting down on thefloor with his legs spread in a manner that resembled of someone who had fallendown once their legs stopped. His skin was soft and warm to the touch. Wordsescaped them, no one knew what to say, shock on both their faces. They staredat one another until their pants turned into even breathings. And then, afterGod knows how long, their lips curled, in perfect and complete synch, theirbodies moved again, now lungs filled with laughter, joy, long lost happiness.
The smallerthrew himself on Jongdae, arms wrapped around his neck. It took a split of asecond for the taller to reciprocate. Holding the other there, home wasn’t themuseum, but the boy he was holding. He could see dim moonlight on his cheek ashe looked back at him, laying on a field with fresh grass that tickled them, hecould see him in a window seat, looking at the rain pour, tracing his fingersdown the window pane following the drops, Jondae could see them blowing dandelions,could listen his giggle like a distant memory, could even remember a name. Likea dream, like lost memories that were coming back, like they were meant to bein a past life, like they had found each other before.
They pulledapart, again looking at each other. The piece of art long forgotten, the otherbeing the only thing his new born eyes could see. Jondae recognized that kittenlike smirk, the crescents in his eyes and the voice. He read his lips but healready knew what he was saying.
“I’mMinseok. Please tell me you remember me from our dreams.” “Because I sure do.”
Maybe hadbeen inside the building the whole time, between the dull and smoke, andperhaps that’s why he kept coming back. And just, just perchance, in art they found each other, the threat that linked their dreams, those fantasies they had ever since they wereborn, with each other.