kuweiweek - Tumblr blog

kuweiweek · 4 years ago

Text

Prometheus, dreaming ; k.y.b

A/N: Rolling up to this event like- can you tell I'm obsessed with this boy?? can you? can you tell yet? sighs but. guess who took a soulmate au and wrote a whole ass backstory (crossing over into SOC and KOS events lmao) for the man, the boy, the legend (for @kuweiweek !!). Featuring gratuitous fire imagery, over-dramatic poetry, and inspiration from a Richard Siken verse. It's what he would have wanted.

Word Count : 2.4k

Rating; Gen // No romantic pairings

Read on AO3!

PS: Thank you so much @niecity for betaing !<33

It starts as it always does, with an explosion, a burst of fire.

There's a crash against the tall chemicals that fascinate him, and the young boy pushes back, sparks alighting his fingertips and travelling up his palms. The colours are flammable, bright and heady, and the young boy soon finds himself surrounded by red and yellow and everything bright. He stumbles, pressed against a warm chest as he closes his eyes, content in the hands of warmness and safety. His father soothes him, carefully shielding him, putting out the flames with a seemingly flick of his palm, and soothes the boy, murmuring soft whispers and running calloused tips over the boy's crinkled nose, scrunched eye lids, pained expression.

"Yul’ya", the voice placates, low and sweet, and the boy - still precocious, old enough to recognise his father’s features yet too young to properly cherish them, sniffs, leaving scrunched up hands fisted into the sleeves of the scruffy work outfit, blossoming orange streaks in its wake.

There's a low chuckle, and the boy gasps, running fingers over the colours again, and again, carefully touching them, almost afraid to tip them over, to erase the tender marks that scream love and pain and warmth and home.

His childhood is idyllic, nights spent doused in cool air and running through grass fields. His father stays inside, perpetually preoccupied with large equations and obscure shapes, deciphering the clues, the flame that glinted too bright when his son smiled, the yellow that simmered, threatening to grow in his son's eyes.

The skies are painted in hues of vibrant purples and blues, and the boy stretches, trying to reach them, paint his hands and colour the lightly tanned skin.

{Rain-filled streets are coloured neon green, but the streets are wide, wide enough for three cars to pass. The streets are painted in the colours of home - yet not exactly, and he calls out, runs towards them, eager to pluck the paint from the streets, while the streets are wide enough that the boy can see more than he ever has while streets are chock-full of colours. He remembers them vaguely, from a trip to the city, where his father dressed him in all blue - for mourning, he had said - and pulled him close, hands tangled and inky, face dripping as he sobbed at the rectangular coffin, hands unfeeling as he pressed harder and harder, sobbing as a band on his ring finger disappears, another soul mark lost-}

He looks down at his clean hands, and pulls out the few dyes his father uses, streaking them and colouring them bright in all the hues of the rainbow. The dyes crumble, soon turning to soot - the colours not able to withstand the heat, the colours too volatile, too flammable - yet he persists, throwing colour upon colour onto the hands, fire erupting too fast and too quick to make anything stay.

The boy falls back onto the soil, staring at the open sky, and as he considers his father’s words, his arms shift - salty tears washing away the ghost shades of a painting.

The days are clipped short, blown out as they trickle through his hands like ashes. Through feverish eyes he sees his father experimenting, creating Parem and he wants to scream but he tampers with the flame eating away in his stomach, forces on a smile that glints just a bit too ferociously and listens to his father warn him of dangers he cannot control.

(And if at night there is something burning in his chest, straining against his lips, that's no one's business, certainly not his-)

The Fjerdans come too soon, too fast, and then it's not him that is burning, but it's his father, wielding fire and ire, angry and snapping at the hungry wolves that come for him. There is a split second - a mere spark - and the fire blows out of control, and his father stands in the center, smiling as he cups Kuwei's cheeks.

There's soot crawling up his throat, and hurt bubbling through his skin as he smiles at Kuwei, muttering his name for the last time. Power sings in his veins, and as he stills, he lets the fire burn him and unchain him, and all he wants to do is cry as he breaks-

-and the soft fingerprints of love on his shoulder disappear.

There is something dream-like, something lost, amongst the rooms he's given. There's a list of instructions he's assigned, and he forces his flames to be forgotten. His hands are long and nimble, and they freeze, scrabbling for warmth in a place of cold and druskelle.

He pays attention yet somehow doesn't - looks, unseeing at soul marks painted upon the arms that leer at him, point and snap, like hungry wolves and all he can think of is fire boiling as he sees the sharp difference between the unmarked skin and the coloured blotches littered across his tormentors hands and he seethes, fire erupting, until all he can think of is a motion blurred.

He dreams, sometimes. He dreams it’s all smoke and mirrors and silhouettes, skin against skin, lips and teeth and plenty of other things. Sometimes, he kisses someone underneath some starry sky, a few miles of the lab, whitewashed buildings far away. Sometimes, there’s no urgency in between touches - just an embrace and a nip, a head against the curve of his neck, soft lips pressed against his shoulder blades. Sometimes, he aches and dreams of an emotion so powerful that it burns and calms every love, and he sings and they're alive and free.

Then he wakes up, and stalls, delaying the inevitable, and drowns in the pool of fantasies forgotten.

There is another flame, and it always starts with a flame and ends with a flame, he thinks, and there is chaos and another girl, with flaming red hair and a druskelle, whose gaze doesn't seem so frozen. And he doesn't even want to talk to her, but they both whisper too much and stare at each other too much and they both ache too much, and he's afraid to tell her of the flame, of the red and orange that eats at his soul, of a song that eats at his chest, but soon there's a beckoning hand from the girl and she stops blood and his eyes widen a fraction too late (too early?) as he breathes out grisha.

There is a wildness and ferocity in her eyes, a glint promising danger as she smiles at him, uncharacteristically soft. She gestures her hand, and the boy resists the urge to flinch at the sheer power. She's dangerous, bewitching and alluring, yet he can't find it in himself not to trust her. His power tethers, threatening to blow out, and there's a burning in his chest as he coughs, and he releases it, for the first time in what feels like forever.

The boy burns, joining the flames, letting them fly free and devouring everything, centuries of haunting and revenge and pain somehow bursting out in multitudes. The flames aren't forgiving, and his hands grow taut - a wire, poised to snap - as he lets go of the array of dancing colours. The girl and druskelle stand there, something like fear flickering in their eyes and he takes her hand, breathless with freedom and hope.

They run through the collapsing halls as the flames feed, and the boy clamours down the urge to laugh, because this is the first time he's felt so

alive.

The second he comes back on to the ship, holed up in an area, he discovers a wine red fingerprint circling his wrist, and a greyish, more rough one, on the edge of his other palm. He rubs the first one faintly, hearing the thundering rush of blood, the sheer danger and exhilaration he felt when she was near him, and he carefully touches the second one, a faint smile bordering his lips as he hears the howl of a those same wolves, but there's something different - something soft about, something kind and something understanding.

He inspects his two hands again, before focusing on the jurda parem, yet he can't suppress the surprise and warmth he finds glowing merrily in his chest.

The colours on his skin grow and bloom, as time passes. A dark, rich black for Kaz (rich like the streets like Ketterdam, cold like the streets of Ketterdam, as he once overhears him dictate to Inej), a light, decadent purple for Inej. He's not sure where his mark appears on Kaz - the perpetual enigma - but he sees Inej's face light up with glee as she inspects the lithe marks, twirling around the nape of her shoulder. She smiles at him, and he can't help but think that everything will be ok.

Then there's Jesper, bright, decadent green (much unlike the garish patterns he chooses to wear, the boy privately thinks), thumbprints gently stroking his cheek as he kisses him. There's sulphur and ash on the boy's lips, and it suffocates him, envelops him, tangles them up together into some fucked up operatic tragedy when Jesper turns around in the hallway, eyes wide and breathy, chasing after another boy. Too late, the boy realises that love is a religion for him too, and they are believers of different faiths.

The universe is merciful, and doesn't immortalise his mistake, his lost kiss and instead leaves orange and red contrasting with onyx, something Jesper continues to laugh about, eyes crinkling like a muted candle.

Wylan's is a strange case, a sort of paradox he can't wrap around, an equation he can't decipher. They don't intermingle, the first few days that they meet, and instead the boy looks on, curious, not speaking a single word. Then he's transformed into someone he doesn't know, yet still does - the face the boy's grown up with, imposed on another being.

They work together in the labs often, despite their initial distaste for each other, the eerie unsettlement as the boy resisted the urge to set flame his face, just to watch himself burn, just to surround himself in familiarity. Wylan is cold, so cold, but he is an expert at warmth, at thawing the cold. It's strange, the bizarre realisation dawning on him, as he looks over the younger boy’s shoulder, realising the strange familiarity, the warmth and chagrin that slowly dissolved into something friendly.

When Wylan looks back at him, face tailored to look like himself once more, he notices a strange flame licking up, surrounding and chasing itself around his fingers. He's not that surprised when he finds out, instead pointing to a point near his unevenly cropped bangs, where there is a light blue swirl.

The nights with the crows are nothing close to peaceful, and on some days, he finds himself buried amongst pale drawings, chasing dreams forgotten, sobbing tears for a life lost and a sharp burn that clamours into his chest every so often. Yet throughout the time they spend together, he becomes a flame burning full of emotion, full of exhilaration, and he wishes that he could bottle that feeling up and cage it forever.

The little palace is something grand, having arch steeples rising high into the sky, it’s architecture seemingly going on and up and touching the arc of heaven, kissing the sun. The guard who receives them is another Grisha - he can tell, hear distant power simmering.

The woman sitting at her desk frowns, looks absolutely tired as she faces him, face hardened as she critically appraises him.

What's your name, she asks, eyes unimaginably bright and tone filled with feigned disinterest.

The boy shifts, running the syllables over his tongue before speaking the words out loud.

Nhaban.

Rising Phoenix.

There's a hidden smile that blooms across her face, and she shuffles her papers, tying her ribbon back.

Well then. Welcome to Ravka, Nhaban.

Fire and smoke, in the hundreds of bodies he's torched, in the closeness of a lost friend, in the sight of his father’s body burning. In the deepest pits of hell. In a clearing of trees charred into the ground. In a burning building as you escape with new allies, new soulmates, new friends. And now, in his hands, his fingertips, his mouth. It’s burning him-

-and he shines and glimmers in a way he hadn't felt before, a reverent chant in his head screaming alive alive alive.

Nhaban lifts his head, fire blooming through his fingers and he gets up from the chair, eager to follow.

He gains new colours, new soul marks around the palace, faint sparks that decorate his arms, that glow with a soft heat that he feels from inside.

Zoya leaves lightning blue scars, electric, David leaves buttery, blooming yellow and Nikolai leaves teal, picturesque fingertips. There are faint marks from the fellow etherealki he trains alongside, some green, some purple, another one orange - a few shades lighter, a few shades more subtle.

Sometimes, things are rough - he wakes up with an ache that persists, and his dreams are haunted by flames, growing larger and bigger and devouring him. Maybe it's the fact they're soul marks, or the simple fact that they know Nhaban, but he's never alone. David's lab remains open to him at all hours, and on the rare occasions when he's not antagonised Zoya, he lets him walk alongside her and make minute, meaningless (yet somehow comforting) small talk. Nikolai leaves him small hints to hidden doorways and secret passages to the kitchens and to the backyard and sometimes, he pulls all nighters with the rest of the etherealki, and on the rare days when he stays up throughout the night, collapsing as the sun greets him, there's always a neatly arranged stack of letters, ranging from Kaz's crisp penmanship to Inej's swooping curves, to Jesper's short, stocky handwriting, and Nina's cramped, too large and too excited letters.

He'll never get over the haunting burns that he faced, he'll probably never chase away nightmares of the damp lab in Fjerda, all alone. But now, surviving, his powers flickering and quick to appear, with so many colours (real, not markers, not pretend ) left on him, Kuwei can't help but smile.

And so, the story doesn't really end - not with a harsh forest fire, but rather with a stubborn, apricot coloured flame that refuses to go out.

Reblogs, likes and comments always appreciated!! <3

#day 7 #writing #theogony

9 notes · View notes