Jongdae was tired. His cheeks felt hot, his eyes burning a bit. He blinked away the redness - or so he hoped - while he typed away at the greasy keyboard. Numbers and numbers, word for stupid word. It was getting dark outside, and he wasn't being paid for the overtime he did right now. If he left though, he wouldn't get this done. If he wouldn't get this done, he was ed. He was tired of his job. It was a cacophony of the same sounds over and over again.

You messed up.

You'll cover for them, right?

Can you come in early tomorrow?

It's your fault.

You'll stay until it's done, right?

Certificates, confirmations, assessments. Paper, paper, paper. Jongdae hadn't meant to end up here, he really hadn't. He'd studied math, had spent years understanding the most abstract concepts. Hadn't just learnt formulas but poured his heart into understanding them. Now where did it lead him? To being a typing monkey for a grimey notary company. How pathetic.

It really was dark when he scuffled home, changing artificial white light for the bland, yellow light of street lamps. Blinking lights, cars, billboards. Surrounded by dead, inanimate objects, even after work. The bar below his apartment was already opened with its tacky red light and blinking signs, the vague hum of conversations over an even vaguer bassline. Jongdae just walked past the entrance to open the door, taking the dusty stairs. Artificial, orange-colored light flooded the hallway. Sickly, in a way.

He opened his door. Darkness. Silence.

Not actual silence - the bass was prominent from where he was, he could feel it in the cheap carpet the previous tenant had left.

He wanted to sink down with the back against his door, feel the bass in his legs and simply sit around and let his thoughts settle. Into a dense layer of misery in the pit of his stomach. But he had no energy to be miserable today, and instead made his way to the shower only to fall to bed soon after. It was blissfully cool against his slightly damp skin.

And he dreamed.

Dreams of smudged colors, walls dipped in orange and red. Black carpets. Opened drawers, a mess of paperwork, bills and photos, pens and ripped open envelopes stretching over the ground and tables.

And then there was a party. Lots of people milling around, legs and skintight dresses, cocktails in hand and pointed heels stabbing the papers like fallen leaves. What a mess.

"You should burn it."

He turned around, colors running into each other as the dream adjusted, little dots of light dancing by. It was the young barkeeper from downstairs. The tall one with the fiery red hair and the wide, pretty eyes. He seemed so unattainable in real life, but dreams were friendlier than that.

"Burn it," he repeated, and Jongdae stared at his lips, feeling hazy and stressed by the unsettling environment. He'd said it so nicely, almost tantalizing, and his voice was warm and rough like a simmering fire. There was a silver lighter in his hands. In Jongdae's hands, now. The bartender grabbed his hands and squeezed them together, made the metal of the lighter dig into his palm.

He saw his lips move, heard the words echo belatedly through his head.

Burn it.

When Jongdae woke up that morning, he didn't wait for the alarm to allow him to doze some more. He swung his legs out of bed almost immediately, spurred on by an odd zing of electricity. As if in a trance, he walked around the apartment and took every single piece of paper he found lying around and put them in the sink. Everything that wasn't in place, every part of the mess. He had no lighter, but old fashioned matches did the trick.

That morning, Jongdae watched paper wrinkle up and turn to ash before work. Trash, advertisements, envelopes, photos of people he wasn't missing all that much in the big city. Everything went into the sink, everything was reduced to ash.

His superior actually yelled at him when he found out about the missing documents. Jongdae found that he didn't really care all that much.

And dream-Chanyeol seemed pleased that night, burning paper together with him. Despite the dream being hazy, Jongdae remembered seeing the flames reflecting in his orbs.

His days were still a flurry of sensory input, and he usually missed seeing Chanyeol standing behind the bar, sneaking a glance when he felt like he was being watched through the glass. It was alright though, for he'd see him at night.

Not too soon after he found himself at the bar, still dipped in orange light - the party was still there but the mess was gone. The dream had adjusted. With a possessive hand around his shoulders and hot lips pressed to his ears he told him to burn his phone.

"Burn it, see if you can burn it."

"See if it relents."

"See if you're stronger."

Jongdae wanted to back away a bit, to breathe, but Chanyeol pressed him closer with a force no one had touched him with before. It was dizzying.

It took a while to see results. The screen cracked quickly enough, but the plastic just wouldn't melt. It only fueled the fire within Jongdae, made him feel stubborn. He didn't stop until it turned into a lump of frazzled plastic. No more calls. No more demands, no more accuse. Nothing. Silence.

No one could actually confront him about not having a phone anymore - the texts all ended up in his sink, right in the puddle of ash, where they belonged.

The orange light was getting more and more offensive, headache-inducing even. The carpet really was cheap, Jongdae felt it rub against his back as he was pressed into it. There were people celebrating around him, pointy heels that were a bit too close for comfort, but Chanyeol didn't budge. He'd looked at him so nicely this evening, had even waved at him through the glass. Now he was grinning, and it wasn't just warm, it was scorching hot. Wild. Prickly and dangerous. Rough hands crawling under Jongdae's shirt, smoothing over the plane of his stomach. He should be scared but this was a dream. Dreams had a way of twisting people inside out, of ripping apart all the carefully adjusted puzzle pieces. Jongdae arched into the touch, despite being afraid on some level he didn't understand right then.

Chanyeol ripped at his shirt, tugged it up until it dug into Jongdae's side. And then he offered him the lighter.

"You know what to do," he said silently, seriously, and Jongdae was scared. Scared of burning himself. The lighter was shaking in his fingers. Chanyeol tugged even harder and with a wince, he hurried to comply, saw the flame and... woke up to the cool darkness of his room.

With a glazed over gaze, Jongdae watched the fabric burn in his sink. It was a lot of fabric. It took so long. The fire alarm went off at one point. He monotonously apologized on the phone. There were some things that wouldn't burn down - like zippers and studs, cheap metal that couldn't even vanish properly. It was strangely infuriating.

Now smiling, pushover Jongdae in his slacks and dress shirt was gone.

Worn out, sloppy Jongdae in ripped jeans and stained hoodies was gone, too.

Insecure, careful Jongdae with the brand name pants and proper shirt was gone, too.

All gone. There was no one left but Jongdae, in a simple white shirt and nondescript pants. A blank piece of paper. He wondered whether this was enough now. Whether Chanyeol was satisfied now. Whether he was someone beneath all these layers.

That day, Jongdae actually entered the bar with a careful smile and a few coins he used to buy a chilled lemonade. When Chanyeol placed the drink on the bar, Jongdae was gone, leaving nothing but a note telling Chanyeol to keep the drink, and to have a nice shift.

He felt better about himself. He really did. Maybe he would go out and buy new clothes tomorrow. Something new. Maybe something Chanyeol liked.

But Chanyeol wasn't satisfied. In fact, the fire in his eyes shone brighter than ever, wild and unconstrained, fueled by all the things Jongdae had burnt for him. And he laid his hands on him - not on his stomach, not on his sides, but around his throat.

There was carpet against his back, fire around them, and Jongdae couldn't even tell whether there were people around anymore. Everything was hot and painful, the air too stifling too breathe and Chanyeol's fingers tightening gradually. Jongdae started to cry. It was the smoke, the heat, but also the misery.

"What more do you want?" he croaked out, squirming beneath a much heavier frame. "What more could I possibly give you? What is it?"

He had done so much, why wasn't Chanyeol satisfied with him?

A hot piece of metal was placed on his slippery, bare chest. Oh. He wasn't wearing clothes. Chanyeol was looking down at him, a hot command blazing in his gaze.

"You know what to do."

With sweaty fingers, he reached for the lighter.

You know what to do.

There was still too much left. Too much.

When Jongdae's conscious prickled back into real life, sirens were blaring, and someone tugged him out of his apartment. People were running, reflective neon yellow biting the artificial, orange light, drowning in black smoke. He coughed and blinked against his blurry vision as he was ushered down the stairs and outside, where a few people had gathered to openly gawk.

What happened, the uniformed people asked him over and over again.

It was an accident, Jongdae finally muttered. Sleep-walking, he called it.

Because what else was he going to say?

A blanket was placed over his shoulders and for a while, Jongdae blankly stared at the smoke coming from his window.

Furniture, tapestry, books and belongings - it was all burning. Everything. And maybe, if they hadn't interrupted him, he'd be burning now, too. His skin was glistening and smudged in dirt, jeans and shirt clinging to his frame. He felt hot and grimy. Dirty.

"Are you alright?"

Jongdae knew that deep, slightly rough voice all-too well. He looked to the side and up, up at Chanyeol's unreadable gaze. He wanted to say something, parted his lips, but nothing came out.

I don't know, he wanted to say.

I failed.

I failed in everything, even in this.

He just looked at Chanyeol until a blinking motion caught his eye. Chanyeol was offering him a silver lighter, expression still cryptic. But no. No, it was there - the flame reflected in his orbs, wild and destructive, an aggressive force.

Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was a spark of stubbornness and life Jongdae had thought to be lost, but for a second, anger flashed through him. This was Chanyeol's fault. It was all his fault and even now he wasn't satisfied. He wanted to see Jongdae ruin himself, to burn everything down and erase his existence and Jongdae? Jongdae had been so desperate for some affection that he had played along. It wasn't fair.

He grabbed Chanyeol's dress shirt and pulled him closer, flicking the lighter close to it, close enough so the light of the flame would dance over his chin. Chanyeol's eyes widened in shock, but ultimately, he didn't even attempt to struggle.

"Burn me down," he whispered, wearing an ironic little smile. "Erase everything that's dragging you down."

And Jongdae hesitated. Let the words drip inside his mind.

Erase everything that's dragging you down.

Even now, Chanyeol's eyes looked awfully warm. They had always looked so strangely fond, even when he'd been wrapping his hands around his throat. And suddenly Jongdae knew, he just knew it.

Chanyeol wasn't malicious. Chanyeol was a flame, untamed and strong, ready to cleanse the world. Encouraging him to get rid of everything that was dragging him down. Burning obstacles down, all of them. Down, down to the core.

And if that was still not enough, you had to burn yourself down.

And if he thought Chanyeol should burn, too, then so be it.

Maybe, throughout the course of all this, Jongdae had become a flame himself.

But looking at Chanyeol right now, at the shimmer of regret, but acceptance, the wildly flickering flame in the face of death... he came to a decision and lowered the lighter. Let it fall to the ground, along with the blanket they'd given him.

Then he grabbed Chanyeol's wrist, turned around and ran. Ran from the calls flying after them, ripped the other along as they tumbled down the bumpy streets, neon signs blurring together. He ran and ran until he stumbled down a steep, mossy staircase towards the small lake of an equally small, shabby park. Chanyeol yelped in protest as Jongdae waded into the icy water, but he didn't let go. Not even when the other tumbled, slipped and they both ended up in the knee-deep water. It was dark and muddy, but also so very cold. Chanyeol gasped next to him, but didn't attempt to run away. Jongdae took the second to breathe. Just breathe and feel the cold crawling up his body.

It had felt good to burn everything down. In a strange, sick way it really had. But there was nothing left but himself now. He had done enough. It was alright to leave the foundation.

Next to him, Chanyeol shivered in the dark, completely out of his element, and Jongdae wondered whether the flame in his eyes had died down.

He cupped some water in his hand to clean his face, then scooted over to rub the water into Chanyeol's arms, let it flow into the back of his neck and carded wet fingers through his damp hair.

"Burning things down is alright," Jongdae began, voice quiet and hoarse over the slick sounds of water around them, of soggy clothes dripping. "But a real phoenix also has to rise from the ash and start anew. Right?"

He could only see Chanyeol tilting his head, presumably looking at him. When he spoke up though, his voice was surprisingly small and full of disbelief.

"But- but me?"

"You too."

Even me? Chanyeol whispered into Jongdae's neck a while later, and Jongdae hugged him tighter, running on nothing but the low warmth of simply being alive.

Especially you, he hummed.

That night, they slept in a cheap hotel. In a room far above ground, away from both their lives and wrapped up in cool blankets and silence. For the first time in forever, Jongdae felt like he heard his own heartbeat. Alongside Chanyeol's.

If you're wondering why I chose this title - the colors red and orange are associated with artificial light (hallway/bar), and since Jongdae burnt away all the artificial stuff...~

Love,
Sugar-and-Salt