“what the hell is that?” jongin asks almost inaudibly.

“you know what it is,” sehun replies, equally quiet.

“no.  that’s stupid, sehun.  it’s not true; those are fairytales.”  sehun opens his mouth to protest, but jongin shakes his head at him, panic beginning to bubble in his chest.  “i have to—training.  i—this…” he shakes his head again and stumbles out the bedroom door, shutting it shakily behind him.

sehun clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut, his hands balled in fists at his sides.  he doesn’t know what he should have expected, but this certainly was not it.

the shiver does not stop when jongin reaches the training field, uncontainable as he holds his bow and arrow in position.  his eyes seem to burn into the tip of the arrow, but his gaze is unsteady, his mind unfocused, and the flame does not come.  officer wu clears his throat, and jongin’s agitation grows at the impatience in the air.

“jongin, maybe you should relax your hold just slightly,” officer wu tries gently.

“maybe you should shut the up, yifan,” jongin growls, letting his hand go.  the arrow sails halfway to the target and drops to the grass.

“jongin,” yifan warns.

“what?” jongin screams, fire finally roaring where the arrow has landed as he turns to face his officer.  the flame at the surrounding grass, travels down the length of the field, flickering in the fog.

yifan doesn’t say a thing, simply gestures at the mess jongin has made.  the prince turns, shoulders trembling as he watches the mass of flames grow.  he feels the other come up beside him.

“without control, your talent is a waste, jongin,” says yifan.  breaths come in harsh spurts by the time jongin calms the flame several minutes later, and he feels a light clap on his shoulder.  “it’s officer wu now, by the way.”

as yifan walks off, jongin drops to the earth, fills his lungs with the damp air, chest rising and falling slowly.  body on fire, he feels the chill of fire overexertion threaten to swallow him whole.  but it is not fire overexertion that scratches along his chest, and he presses his fingertips to the skin over his heart.  jongin’s blood, his flesh, his skin burns, his breaths shallow as he gulps for air.  he brings shaky fingers to the collar of his shirt and pulls at the fabric to expose the top of his chest.  it takes his all to refrain from crying out at the sight of it.  he watches in horror as the marking spreads slowly across his skin, blue and black and gray, watches as sehun’s pattern is carved into him, watches until it has covered the entirety of his left upper body, until he lets himself

breathe into the winter mist:

“soul mates.”

nightfall has come and sehun is asleep by the time jongin makes his way back to his bedroom, still disoriented from the morning’s events.  he hovers at his desk, hesitant to open the drawer.  he hasn’t touched the journal in years, pushed to the back of his stationery, beneath stacks of other journals and loose papers.  it is sturdy and faded in his hands, and although the shiver has gone, he finds his fingers clumsily fumbling with sehun’s medallion as he presses the amulet into the lock.

click.

he holds back a sob at sehun’s 11-year-old scrawl on the first page.

dear jongin,

for every year that you have been unable to open this journal, you owe me a fire-roasted meal.

happy birthday.

sehun

but jongin is no longer 12, and instead, he climbs atop his bed and presses seven lingering kisses down sehun’s chest, where he knows his own pattern has mapped itself across glowing white skin—presses an eighth to sehun’s lips.  sehun does not stir but lets out a soft sigh in his sleep, and jongin is relieved.

because the prince of ignis does not kiss the prince of glacies, does not kiss other men, does not give in to selfish desires.  so jongin lets sehun curl into his side and snore softly against his shoulder but vows that the ninth he leaves on sehun’s forehead will be the last.

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