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writetomyheart2015-07-05 09:33 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-07-05 09:33 pm
[team sonic] when the trembling stops
First word taken from here.
Title from Trigger by SHINee. This is for you![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nachtegael.I'm very sorry for the small smut references.
Paper crumples between his fingers, the sound loud in the empty room, as Kibum sighs, lets his shoulders slump for just a moment.
What did I expect? The answer will always be nothing. He's nothing, just another face in the crowd, a blur at the party, red plastic cups crunching on the carpet, a quick fuck in the bathroom and the door slams, still dripping come between his legs on the bathroom tile.
The mirror is foggy; Kibum can't see his reflection.
23:45
He tucks the gun into the holster under his arm, the door slamming shut with an eerie finality.
"Where are you going?" Jongin's voice is puzzled, a little clingy, and Taemin rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything, just keeps shrugging his jacket over silver-sequined shoulders. Why did I wear this? The eternal question.
"I have work," he says, and leaves it at that, waving at the room before slipping out into the dark. It feels good to shrug off the heavy air of the day, expectations and annoyances and let it all go, as his gaze sharpens and the real consequences start weighing on his shoulders. It's a good feeling.
23:45
Kibum eyes the building speculatively. It looks deserted, but then they always do. Appearances are deceiving. Your smile, when you pulled back after kissing me. If you're not careful, you'll walk into a trap.
Kibum doesn't feel very careful today.
The streets are wet with water from the rain that fell earlier in the evening, reflecting the yellow and red streetlights like blurred stars; it's pretty, Taemin decides, splashing through the puddles in his leather boots even though he'll regret it later when his feet are cold. Sometimes it's good to feel alive. The gun tucked into his belt is a nice weight to counterbalance the red on his hands, he's long since stopped trying to scrub it off.
Some things don't wash clean, but it's strange, what we can learn to love.
The building really is empty. Or rather, it's empty but Kibum has the familiar feeling of being watched, after years on the job it's as easy as losing a trail or hitting the right spot to drop someone on the first try. The fear wears off too, or many that's just him.
You're getting careless, Kyuhyun had said, frowning behind the facade of a three piece suit that costs more than—oh wait, he has one like that at home. Kibum had just smiled instead, waved goodbye with a small bow as he left.
He knows there's a catch, can even feel it in his bones because there's not enough left of his heart for any kind of premonition like that, but there's a chaise longue and it's dark outside, no stars that he can see through the window.
Taemin doesn't usually go in through the front door, he's more of backdoor kind of person, but today is a backwards kind of day. His shirt is scratching his neck and he's going to throw it away, or preferably burn it, when he gets home. Never again. He doesn't pull out his gun, but he tries the front door, which swings open at the first click as he steps aside.
Nothing happens.
Taemin enters the dark building, dust rising from the floor with each footstep.
There's someone in the building. Kibum lies on the chaise longue, one arm tucked under his head, and the traces his path through the hallways, up the staircases, because everyone knows that elevators are death traps, closer and closer to the room he's waiting in.
Because he is waiting.
I'm tired of this.
Taemin knows there's a person in the room at the end of the hallway, overlooking the back parking lot. There's a kind of prickling in his fingers, running up and down his spine, it whispers it's a trap it's a trap it's a trap and yet this time he doesn't agree with his intuition.
There's something different about today.
Taemin keep walking, hand on his holster.
There's the faintest exhalation of breath outside the door, and Kibum knows the person is just on the other side. He could slip out his gun, aim and fire without even leaving the chaise longue.
But he doesn't.
Taemin is standing on the other side of the door, hand on the doorknob, even though it's a careless place to be. For all he knows, the person on the other side has a gun cocked, finger on the trigger and ready to fire, maybe he has a silencer on and the bullet is already speeding towards where he's standing, just on the other side of the flimsy wood door.
He opens the door anyway.
The door opens, but Kibum doesn't bother to look up. The ceiling is fascinating, cracks and the tiny shadows that hide under tiny swirls of curling paint, it's an invisible landscape.
"Hi," a voice says from across the room. Kibum knows there's a gun trained on him, after so long it's still a familiar feeling, like slipping on a lost glove only to find it still fits.
"Hi," he says, and keeps tracing the ceiling.
Taemin has his gun out and trained on the target before he first footstep lands, old habits die hard after all. But the person in the room, a man he sees now, isn't even looking at him. Instead, he's lying on an old chaise longue, staring at the ceiling, even though Taemin can see the slight bulge in his jacket, the faintest tracery of a gun.
"Hi," he says, and means what's this game you're playing? but the man only replies with an echo.
"Hi."
Taemin steps closer, gun still trained on the man who doesn't even look away from whatever is so fascinating on the ceiling. Taemin doesn't look up. His feet are wet in his leather boots and he wants to go home and pull on dry socks.
"Are we doing this?" he asks, because shooting someone who won't even look at you feels like an insult.
The man doesn't say anything, and Taemin wonders if he didn't understand, but he must have. The silhouette of the gun under his jacket is proof enough. After a while he exhales, a long breath that leaves Taemin strangely cold.
"You can shoot me if you kiss me first," the man says, and finally looks at him.
Taemin blinks.
Kibum looks at the man who walked through the door, gun in his hands, and there's a twitch in his heart, after so long being numb it hurts.
He's tired of this, but something about the man makes him crave a thing he can't put into words, not even shape in his mind. Connection.
The man considers his terms, eyes flickering over the gun tucked in Kibum's holster. Kibum draws it—the man snapping to poised attention, his whole body tensed like a strung arrow, bow quivering just before—but Kibum tosses it across the room where it lands with a dull thud, like breaking bones. Dust billows up from the ground.
"What are you waiting for?" Kibum asks, and his voice is bored but it's a lie.
Taemin looks at the gun lying on the ground, the gun still in his hands, the man, rising to a seated position on the chaise longue. It's a terrible idea but he does it anyway.
And there's something thrilling about knowing he could die any second, hear the sound of a gun going off as the bullet shreds through his skin, still walking forward on borrowed momentum.
Taemin could get used to this.
Kibum knows he's going to do it, even before he starts walking forward, a kind of fire in his eyes that sinks right into his skin, eats away at the blackened ruin of his heart.
What would it be like to burn one more time?
He's sitting up on the chaise longue, fingers grazing the cracked leather, as the stranger leans down, a question in his eyes, as though he's asking, Is this when you stab me through the heart?
There is a knife in Kibum's boot, and a garotte hidden in his collar, besides countless other small weapons secreted around his body, but he opens his mouth instead, as the man leans down.
Taemin is still expecting a knife through the ribs or a shot to the heart as he leans down over the man, so the burn of skin meeting skin, soft lips and a warm tongue are almost more of a shock than a cold bullet.
But the fire fills his chest, sinking onto the stranger's legs, chests pressed together, heads tilting for a better angle as their crotches rub against each other in passing, the feeling intensifies, smouldering embers burst into flames.
Taemin gasps when the man pulls back, a delicate line of saliva tracing between their parted lips, chests heaving as they breathe and the line breaks. He doesn't know how it happened, but the man had his hands on the gun, fingers curled around Taemin's, finger on the trigger.
"Shoot," Kibum whispers, but he can see the slight hesitation in the man's eyes, not becoming in a person sporting a .45, and it will probably be the death of him one day. If Kibum had wanted it at any point in time, the man would be dead. Probably. Appearances are always deceiving.
"Why?" the man asks, the word slipping out between his lips, falling onto Kibum's upturned face but he doesn't answer as his fingers push home.
The man doesn't answer the question, as the gun between them fires, throwing Taemin backwards and he's gasping for air, winded on the floor and a few ribs are probably broken, red all over his chest but most of it isn't his.
He doesn't care about that, desperately trying to sit up, but the sight is everything he didn't want it to be.
The man is lying on the sofa, smiling, a hole ripped into his chest.
As Taemin picks up his gun and leaves the room, he wonders why it feels like he's the one who got shot.
Title from Trigger by SHINee. This is for you
nachtegael.I'm very sorry for the small smut references.Paper crumples between his fingers, the sound loud in the empty room, as Kibum sighs, lets his shoulders slump for just a moment.
What did I expect? The answer will always be nothing. He's nothing, just another face in the crowd, a blur at the party, red plastic cups crunching on the carpet, a quick fuck in the bathroom and the door slams, still dripping come between his legs on the bathroom tile.
The mirror is foggy; Kibum can't see his reflection.
23:45
He tucks the gun into the holster under his arm, the door slamming shut with an eerie finality.
"Where are you going?" Jongin's voice is puzzled, a little clingy, and Taemin rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything, just keeps shrugging his jacket over silver-sequined shoulders. Why did I wear this? The eternal question.
"I have work," he says, and leaves it at that, waving at the room before slipping out into the dark. It feels good to shrug off the heavy air of the day, expectations and annoyances and let it all go, as his gaze sharpens and the real consequences start weighing on his shoulders. It's a good feeling.
23:45
Kibum eyes the building speculatively. It looks deserted, but then they always do. Appearances are deceiving. Your smile, when you pulled back after kissing me. If you're not careful, you'll walk into a trap.
Kibum doesn't feel very careful today.
The streets are wet with water from the rain that fell earlier in the evening, reflecting the yellow and red streetlights like blurred stars; it's pretty, Taemin decides, splashing through the puddles in his leather boots even though he'll regret it later when his feet are cold. Sometimes it's good to feel alive. The gun tucked into his belt is a nice weight to counterbalance the red on his hands, he's long since stopped trying to scrub it off.
Some things don't wash clean, but it's strange, what we can learn to love.
The building really is empty. Or rather, it's empty but Kibum has the familiar feeling of being watched, after years on the job it's as easy as losing a trail or hitting the right spot to drop someone on the first try. The fear wears off too, or many that's just him.
You're getting careless, Kyuhyun had said, frowning behind the facade of a three piece suit that costs more than—oh wait, he has one like that at home. Kibum had just smiled instead, waved goodbye with a small bow as he left.
He knows there's a catch, can even feel it in his bones because there's not enough left of his heart for any kind of premonition like that, but there's a chaise longue and it's dark outside, no stars that he can see through the window.
Taemin doesn't usually go in through the front door, he's more of backdoor kind of person, but today is a backwards kind of day. His shirt is scratching his neck and he's going to throw it away, or preferably burn it, when he gets home. Never again. He doesn't pull out his gun, but he tries the front door, which swings open at the first click as he steps aside.
Nothing happens.
Taemin enters the dark building, dust rising from the floor with each footstep.
There's someone in the building. Kibum lies on the chaise longue, one arm tucked under his head, and the traces his path through the hallways, up the staircases, because everyone knows that elevators are death traps, closer and closer to the room he's waiting in.
Because he is waiting.
I'm tired of this.
Taemin knows there's a person in the room at the end of the hallway, overlooking the back parking lot. There's a kind of prickling in his fingers, running up and down his spine, it whispers it's a trap it's a trap it's a trap and yet this time he doesn't agree with his intuition.
There's something different about today.
Taemin keep walking, hand on his holster.
There's the faintest exhalation of breath outside the door, and Kibum knows the person is just on the other side. He could slip out his gun, aim and fire without even leaving the chaise longue.
But he doesn't.
Taemin is standing on the other side of the door, hand on the doorknob, even though it's a careless place to be. For all he knows, the person on the other side has a gun cocked, finger on the trigger and ready to fire, maybe he has a silencer on and the bullet is already speeding towards where he's standing, just on the other side of the flimsy wood door.
He opens the door anyway.
The door opens, but Kibum doesn't bother to look up. The ceiling is fascinating, cracks and the tiny shadows that hide under tiny swirls of curling paint, it's an invisible landscape.
"Hi," a voice says from across the room. Kibum knows there's a gun trained on him, after so long it's still a familiar feeling, like slipping on a lost glove only to find it still fits.
"Hi," he says, and keeps tracing the ceiling.
Taemin has his gun out and trained on the target before he first footstep lands, old habits die hard after all. But the person in the room, a man he sees now, isn't even looking at him. Instead, he's lying on an old chaise longue, staring at the ceiling, even though Taemin can see the slight bulge in his jacket, the faintest tracery of a gun.
"Hi," he says, and means what's this game you're playing? but the man only replies with an echo.
"Hi."
Taemin steps closer, gun still trained on the man who doesn't even look away from whatever is so fascinating on the ceiling. Taemin doesn't look up. His feet are wet in his leather boots and he wants to go home and pull on dry socks.
"Are we doing this?" he asks, because shooting someone who won't even look at you feels like an insult.
The man doesn't say anything, and Taemin wonders if he didn't understand, but he must have. The silhouette of the gun under his jacket is proof enough. After a while he exhales, a long breath that leaves Taemin strangely cold.
"You can shoot me if you kiss me first," the man says, and finally looks at him.
Taemin blinks.
Kibum looks at the man who walked through the door, gun in his hands, and there's a twitch in his heart, after so long being numb it hurts.
He's tired of this, but something about the man makes him crave a thing he can't put into words, not even shape in his mind. Connection.
The man considers his terms, eyes flickering over the gun tucked in Kibum's holster. Kibum draws it—the man snapping to poised attention, his whole body tensed like a strung arrow, bow quivering just before—but Kibum tosses it across the room where it lands with a dull thud, like breaking bones. Dust billows up from the ground.
"What are you waiting for?" Kibum asks, and his voice is bored but it's a lie.
Taemin looks at the gun lying on the ground, the gun still in his hands, the man, rising to a seated position on the chaise longue. It's a terrible idea but he does it anyway.
And there's something thrilling about knowing he could die any second, hear the sound of a gun going off as the bullet shreds through his skin, still walking forward on borrowed momentum.
Taemin could get used to this.
Kibum knows he's going to do it, even before he starts walking forward, a kind of fire in his eyes that sinks right into his skin, eats away at the blackened ruin of his heart.
What would it be like to burn one more time?
He's sitting up on the chaise longue, fingers grazing the cracked leather, as the stranger leans down, a question in his eyes, as though he's asking, Is this when you stab me through the heart?
There is a knife in Kibum's boot, and a garotte hidden in his collar, besides countless other small weapons secreted around his body, but he opens his mouth instead, as the man leans down.
Taemin is still expecting a knife through the ribs or a shot to the heart as he leans down over the man, so the burn of skin meeting skin, soft lips and a warm tongue are almost more of a shock than a cold bullet.
But the fire fills his chest, sinking onto the stranger's legs, chests pressed together, heads tilting for a better angle as their crotches rub against each other in passing, the feeling intensifies, smouldering embers burst into flames.
Taemin gasps when the man pulls back, a delicate line of saliva tracing between their parted lips, chests heaving as they breathe and the line breaks. He doesn't know how it happened, but the man had his hands on the gun, fingers curled around Taemin's, finger on the trigger.
"Shoot," Kibum whispers, but he can see the slight hesitation in the man's eyes, not becoming in a person sporting a .45, and it will probably be the death of him one day. If Kibum had wanted it at any point in time, the man would be dead. Probably. Appearances are always deceiving.
"Why?" the man asks, the word slipping out between his lips, falling onto Kibum's upturned face but he doesn't answer as his fingers push home.
The man doesn't answer the question, as the gun between them fires, throwing Taemin backwards and he's gasping for air, winded on the floor and a few ribs are probably broken, red all over his chest but most of it isn't his.
He doesn't care about that, desperately trying to sit up, but the sight is everything he didn't want it to be.
The man is lying on the sofa, smiling, a hole ripped into his chest.
As Taemin picks up his gun and leaves the room, he wonders why it feels like he's the one who got shot.
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