Archive of Our Own ^beta

The throne burns.

Golden flames twist violently, blazing crimson against the back of his eyelids. The smoke rises, dancing gray dragons against the pale sky.

The world is set aflame.

Destiny spoke of a world drenched in flames⎯a unity brought about by the prince of fire.

He dreams in shades of gold, tinted in red and drenched in orange. Of flames and a heat that eats away from within, simmering quietly under his skin. Of an inexplicable warmth licking at his skin, an unpleasant reprieve from the sting of the cold.

He opens his eyes, jerking awake sharply. Silk sheets tangle around his legs and he runs a hand through his hair, pushing aside the sweat against his forehead.

Hyunjin exhales harshly, growling at the sheets twisting around his waist. His breath comes short, the wind picking up in the corner of the room.

Pathetic.

The room is suffocating, the heat building from within. He feels the temperature rise, scorching against his skin. His crown mocks him from the gold dresser by the mirror, heat licking against the edges as the force of his emotions sends it tumbling to the floor, the cold marble. 

He shoves the sheets away, welcoming the reprieve of the cooler air that brushes against his bare legs at the movement and swings his legs over the side of the canopy bed. He ties the billowing white curtains to the posts on either corner of the bed, rest his hands flat back against the bed before straightening once more.

His nightshirt is white, the same color as the curtains, and it brushes faintly by the sides of his bare legs until he growls under his breath, flicking his wrist and pushing them to the side. 

“Your Highness?”

He hums, pretending he does not know what is to come. Footsteps linger by the door, scurrying away only when he slams the armoire door shut.

He sheds his nightshirt, the chiffon fabric pooled in the corner as he picks up a satin white shirt and buttoning it up. The ribbon around his wrist burns, branding him as something else.

He was meant to be something else.

He stands in front of the mirror, ripping the ribbon off and holding it between his teeth before gathering half of his hair at the nape of his neck, bangs falling over his eyes. The motions are familiar, as he ties the ribbon around the small ponytail. 

Familiar motions, familiar reflection. 

Gray eyes look back, scanning his appearance for imperfections that should never have existed. 

Cold.

The glass windows tremble as the wind picks up, licking at the curtains and setting them aflame with ripples. 

All he sees is weakness.

His hand grasps his throat, not hard enough to do any damage but a reminder of what he should have been. What he should have been.

He flicks the top button of his shirt open.

Screw it.

He’s shackled by the thin silver bracelets that adorn his wrist, the heavy silver bands that wind around slender fingers. 

He should have been something else.

They called him flighty, when they first found out. An airhead, unironically. He scoffs, dropping his crossed wrists. 

Would they still, if they knew what he was capable of?

He scoffs, shattering the illusion. They would banish him if they knew what he could do. Who haunted his dreams at night.

Hyunjin slams the door behind him. 

The heat kicks up, swirling in the ash that settles once more, rising with each step. 

“You’re here,” a familiar voice calls out.

Prince Lee Minho, of the Air. His very existence mocks Hyunjin, to wield the flames that were supposed to be Hyunjin’s. 

“It is my kingdom,” Hyunjin points out casually, leaning back against his throne and throwing his leg over an arm. He throws his arms out wide, mockingly generous. “How can I help you, Minho hyung?”

Then again, Hyunjin has always liked to play with fire.

Minho raises an eyebrow coolly, unphased. Hyunjin’s eye twitches, fingers curling tightly around his throne as Minho approaches. The breeze rustles around his feet before catching on the whispers of a fire. The blaze curls around the ends of the curtains, creeping up the walls of the throne room.

Minho’s always had this… aura about him. Apart from being a prince and wielding the opposite element of his people, both of which certainly imbue a unique energy to him, there’s a glint in his eye when he meets Hyunjin’s. A spark, for that brief second of eye contact, before stomping itself out as the mask carefully falls into place.

Hands covered in ash, that mask is nowhere to be seen. He’s lit the spark and Hyunjin will fan the flames⎯only one of them will make it out of here alive.

Minho’s heels click against the marble. Hyunjin straightens, throwing his cape over his shoulder with a gentle breeze. He scoffs at the irony⎯there is nothing gentle about the flames licking at the chandelier above them.

How long until the crystals burn?

Minho brings his fists up, unfurling them slowly until they cradle a flame, silver and thin. Magic, no doubt, something hotter than the room around them.

Hyunjin mocks him, bringing his fists to his lips and blows as he uncurls his fingers. The breeze catches on silver and blows back.

The room fills with smoke faster than his breeze can blow it out, and even if it could, he’s too caught up in the silver flames to care. He holds his breath, hardly able to see the room around them for the black clouds that float around them.

Minho quirks an eyebrow, spinning through the smoke, hiding behind the fire as he cages Hyunjin in by his throne. He leans closer, hardly a breath between their lips before glancing up.

They’ve never been able to look at each other for too long. Hyunjin can taste the ash on his tongue, the end that is already here.

He inhales. Minho tastes sweeter than the summer rain.