Burn Like Stars - Oneshot (Kihyun/Lio)
Title: Burn Like Stars
Author: kayjayloves
Chapter: 1/1
Pairing: Kihyun/Lio
Band: Battle
Genre: drama/angst
Rating: R
Warning: prostitution
Disclaimer: Don't own these boys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: He’s tall, and young (young like you, but he’s buying and you’re selling) and even though you’re not supposed to, you think you give a little bit of your heart to him.
Comments: original post here
“We’re all going to shine like stars,” She tells you, her hands a casual noose around your neck, her strong perfume billowing around you and burning your eyes. A mentor - a protector, she claimed, but you think the only thing she’ll serve to do is pull you down farther.
She’ll help push you over the edge you’ve teetered on so precariously. (We’ll shine as we fall).
When they guide you into the streets, give you a corner and a goal and a figure that your customers should meet. It’s all too orderly, too neat, and you’re thinking maybe you’re too young for this - maybe you’re not prepared, even at the first appraising glance that has you shooting a cheeky smile back.
He’s tall, and young (young like you, but he’s buying and you’re selling) and even though you’re not supposed to, you think you give a little bit of your heart to him. The boundaries feel unclear in your head, tangled and stepped on in the heat of a moment, in the rush of air and electricity and overwhelming feeling - until you’re crashing down to crisp money pressed in your hand and a lazy gesture towards the door.
He’s tall, and young, and maybe you’re a little bit stupid. Maybe you’ll never see him again.
“I’m going to be a star.” You repeat the words later; the mirror reflects every lilt and imperfection in your smile, your eyes. You must look older now, you decide, even though only a few weeks have passed since your mentor (she’s gone, hitched or pregnant or dead, no one knows) whispered the idea into your ears.
Even if you’re not older, you’re dirty now - you can feel it and taste it in against your own tongue, still behind white teeth. You’ve touched sweaty skin, coaxed passion out of burning bodies, met and received (sold yourself to) the secrets of dark alleys and late nights. You live when the sun falters and the fluorescent lights of the city flicker on, but you can’t help feel a little bit dead. A little worn.
A little afraid, and a little caught on the idea that you might see a tall, young stranger again.
Your mentor never comes back, and even younger boys and girls trickle into the system - you find yourself an older brother to the smallest, most afraid (most like you were - still are) of them. Suddenly you’re whispering encouragement into ears that shouldn’t hear the sounds of this side of the city, and you find yourself romancing what you’ve grown to hate:
The city lights dance for the ones like you.
Sometimes you think you see him, a flash of dark hair or a young, sculptured face drawing your eyes before - no, not him. Never him. (and maybe you’ve forgotten what he looks like by now, the stranger with no name and a slowly fading face) You’re trapped in this life, security and survival and the painful hope of seeing someone long gone cementing your bonds.
You rise up in the ranks - you’re past feeling dirty now, but the creeping sense of being old remains. Old, old, so old at not even twenty and it’s so ironic you nearly choke on your own smothered laughter.
“Shut up, no one else is laughing,” says one of the ones in this longer than you, rubbing out his cigarette.
It’s more than a year later when you think you see him again - and the whole thing is too cheesy and unrealistic and you nearly let the moment slip away. But it is him (you think, you think, you think, you’re not so sure anymore, not so clear on the details from your memories) and he’s wearing a dark coat, staring into the window of one of the newly abandoned businesses on your territory.
You approach him; carefully notice that he’s shaking. Maybe he doesn’t hear you, or maybe he’s too caught up in his own thoughts, but you get closer than you ever expected to before he moves at all.
“Hey.” And he’s startled by your voice, looks up at you with reddening eyes and you almost want to take a step back (wonder if he always looked this real, this beautiful, this broken) but you’ve waited too long.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” He says, politely ignoring the flashes of skin and tight cloth that should define you so easily. Of course you do, you almost say, we slept together - but you stop, choke on sudden thought that maybe it was all a fantasy in your head. He brushes past you, nods carefully and quickly and hurries on.
He gets in the cab and never looks back. Never had a reason to.
You’re twenty and you’re old and you’re broken and the bitter irony isn’t funny anymore. Someone passes you a cigarette; you find yourself wondering (but not caring, not really, not anymore) about the girl with the thick perfume and the crazy notions from so long ago. You think of the words, twist them and breathe them out in a flurry of smoke. “We’ll burn like stars.”
A glowing ember sparks and fades on the dirty ground beneath your shoes. (We’ll burn as we fall).
A/N:
As for this fic, the inspiration came from Kiss and Control by AFI, as you'll probably notice if you read the lyrics. XD
Author: kayjayloves
Chapter: 1/1
Pairing: Kihyun/Lio
Band: Battle
Genre: drama/angst
Rating: R
Warning: prostitution
Disclaimer: Don't own these boys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: He’s tall, and young (young like you, but he’s buying and you’re selling) and even though you’re not supposed to, you think you give a little bit of your heart to him.
Comments: original post here
“We’re all going to shine like stars,” She tells you, her hands a casual noose around your neck, her strong perfume billowing around you and burning your eyes. A mentor - a protector, she claimed, but you think the only thing she’ll serve to do is pull you down farther.
She’ll help push you over the edge you’ve teetered on so precariously. (We’ll shine as we fall).
When they guide you into the streets, give you a corner and a goal and a figure that your customers should meet. It’s all too orderly, too neat, and you’re thinking maybe you’re too young for this - maybe you’re not prepared, even at the first appraising glance that has you shooting a cheeky smile back.
He’s tall, and young (young like you, but he’s buying and you’re selling) and even though you’re not supposed to, you think you give a little bit of your heart to him. The boundaries feel unclear in your head, tangled and stepped on in the heat of a moment, in the rush of air and electricity and overwhelming feeling - until you’re crashing down to crisp money pressed in your hand and a lazy gesture towards the door.
He’s tall, and young, and maybe you’re a little bit stupid. Maybe you’ll never see him again.
“I’m going to be a star.” You repeat the words later; the mirror reflects every lilt and imperfection in your smile, your eyes. You must look older now, you decide, even though only a few weeks have passed since your mentor (she’s gone, hitched or pregnant or dead, no one knows) whispered the idea into your ears.
Even if you’re not older, you’re dirty now - you can feel it and taste it in against your own tongue, still behind white teeth. You’ve touched sweaty skin, coaxed passion out of burning bodies, met and received (sold yourself to) the secrets of dark alleys and late nights. You live when the sun falters and the fluorescent lights of the city flicker on, but you can’t help feel a little bit dead. A little worn.
A little afraid, and a little caught on the idea that you might see a tall, young stranger again.
Your mentor never comes back, and even younger boys and girls trickle into the system - you find yourself an older brother to the smallest, most afraid (most like you were - still are) of them. Suddenly you’re whispering encouragement into ears that shouldn’t hear the sounds of this side of the city, and you find yourself romancing what you’ve grown to hate:
The city lights dance for the ones like you.
Sometimes you think you see him, a flash of dark hair or a young, sculptured face drawing your eyes before - no, not him. Never him. (and maybe you’ve forgotten what he looks like by now, the stranger with no name and a slowly fading face) You’re trapped in this life, security and survival and the painful hope of seeing someone long gone cementing your bonds.
You rise up in the ranks - you’re past feeling dirty now, but the creeping sense of being old remains. Old, old, so old at not even twenty and it’s so ironic you nearly choke on your own smothered laughter.
“Shut up, no one else is laughing,” says one of the ones in this longer than you, rubbing out his cigarette.
It’s more than a year later when you think you see him again - and the whole thing is too cheesy and unrealistic and you nearly let the moment slip away. But it is him (you think, you think, you think, you’re not so sure anymore, not so clear on the details from your memories) and he’s wearing a dark coat, staring into the window of one of the newly abandoned businesses on your territory.
You approach him; carefully notice that he’s shaking. Maybe he doesn’t hear you, or maybe he’s too caught up in his own thoughts, but you get closer than you ever expected to before he moves at all.
“Hey.” And he’s startled by your voice, looks up at you with reddening eyes and you almost want to take a step back (wonder if he always looked this real, this beautiful, this broken) but you’ve waited too long.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” He says, politely ignoring the flashes of skin and tight cloth that should define you so easily. Of course you do, you almost say, we slept together - but you stop, choke on sudden thought that maybe it was all a fantasy in your head. He brushes past you, nods carefully and quickly and hurries on.
He gets in the cab and never looks back. Never had a reason to.
You’re twenty and you’re old and you’re broken and the bitter irony isn’t funny anymore. Someone passes you a cigarette; you find yourself wondering (but not caring, not really, not anymore) about the girl with the thick perfume and the crazy notions from so long ago. You think of the words, twist them and breathe them out in a flurry of smoke. “We’ll burn like stars.”
A glowing ember sparks and fades on the dirty ground beneath your shoes. (We’ll burn as we fall).
A/N:
As for this fic, the inspiration came from Kiss and Control by AFI, as you'll probably notice if you read the lyrics. XD