For: hockeffusions
From: bluedreaming

Title: তীলকে তাল করা
Rating: PG
Length: 1636 words
Summary: "I'm a little restless," Junmyeon says, and Jongdae rolls his eyes. "It's been a while since we had a little fun."
Warning/s: mention of blood

Notes: Carl Guttenberg's 1775 Tea-Tax Tempest, with exploding teapot.
Thank you to the mods for being so understanding, and my friends for keeping the tea in my teacup calm.



You should loop Deaf Center's Thunder Night while you read this. Apple Music • Spotify.

I’m going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become. —Jean-Paul Sartre Huis Clos They like to meet on alternate Tuesdays, under the roses coiling up along the metal supports of the glass house, their blossoms full as they sway from thorned stems; the Tuesday stays the same but the alternate depends on the calendar they feel like following. "Those colonialists always got everything wrong" Jongdae snorts into his cup, the clouds scurrying by on the surface, wind gusting so hard that the tea in his cup splashes against the porcelain wall, a stray drop flying up to dot his upper lip. "Well it's hard if there's no written language to follow," Junmyeon shrugs, looking up at the sky through the glass-panelled ceiling. It's blue and clear, not a cloud in sight, unlike the tea in his cup, positively murky with growing menace. Jongdae just makes a face across the table, crossing and re-crossing his ankles. His face, lit from above by the diffused rays of the run, is carved, a contrast in cheekbone and soft lip. Junmyeon knows what that lip tastes like, held between his teeth, stretched out to suck and worry, but now's not the time. There are lines running parallel between Jongdae's eyes and lightning bolts sparking in the pupils of his eyes. Junmyeon smiles anyway, licks his lip, smoothing a stray drop of tea into his mouth. "What are you really up to?" Jongdae asks, and Junmyeon can see his own smile reflected back at him, against the ocean in Jongdae's eyes. There's a slight flicker in the air, a kind of flash, something that isn't really there and yet is, you only flap your wings when you're plotting something, Junmyeon thinks. He curls his pinky as he takes another sip of tea, draining a draught of the storm. "I'm a little restless," Junmyeon says, and Jongdae rolls his eyes, gaze towards the murkiness of the tea in the cup that Junmyeon has his fingers curled around, fingertips dancing a staccato beat just breaths from the porcelain. "It's been a while since we had a little fun." "I don't even want to know," Jongdae says automatically, even as the smile in his eyes twists and bends and starts to shape itself into something else. There's no name for what they have between them, the storm and the ocean, the light and its dark, the one who plays and the one who plots. There's electricity buzzing in the air now, the smell of ozone though the storm is still a ways off. The sky above them is blue, only an absentminded cloud drifting across the expanse of calm, a focal point to frame the picture. Junmyeon takes another sip of tea that now has a fine undertow of salt weighing itself on his tongue. "You can pick the players," Junmyeon says, and he can tell by the way Jongdae blinks that he has someone in mind, even as he shakes his head. "A little fun is a great way to shake off the summer doldrums." "It's only summer if you want it to be summer," Jongdae says, gesturing towards the calendar. It's a circle, because everything starts at the end. Junmyeon just winks. The board, at first glance, could be a chess board. It could be a checker board, maybe Chinese checkers, but only by way of Mesopotamia. The squares, which at first seem black and white, resolve upon blinking into shades of night and day, the shadows of invisible clouds over hills and lakes, mountains and plains. Junmyeon exhales, sending his breath like a wind to stir up the wheat fields. "Your move," he says, taking a sip from his cup, as static builds over the surface, rumblings of an oncoming storm. "I capitulate and defer to you," Jongdae says, "I'll keep my extra turn for later." His eyes glint sharply with stars, reflecting Junmyeon's white teeth.. "Excellent," Junmyeon smiles, resting a fingertip on his philtrum while he observes the board. There's a particularly nice mountain, not too close to the sea. With a flick of his finger, the mountain is occupied, only a flash of gold visible before a tiny figure slips between the trees of the next square. Jongdae raises an eyebrow, considers the game speculatively, taking a sip of tea and swirling it over his tongue. His mouth tastes like salt, as he dips a finger in the sea of a square and a tiny figure appears, white clothes blowing about in the wind. Jongdae smiles. Junmyeon smiles back. With a snap of his fingers he's gone. Jongdae looks at the board, shaking his head. "Already?" he asks the air in the greenhouse, the way the roses stretch out vines to the light, moving just a fraction too slowly to catch with the eye. There's no answer, only rustling on the board, the faintest hiss that precedes a storm. Then a crack, as the first bolt of lightning splits the surface of the sea in Junmyeon's cup. One second he's not there, and the next he's perched on his seat, smoothing his wind-ruffled hair back into place. His mouth is red. Jongdae silently hands him a napkin. "You're too predictable," he says shaking his head. The waves in his teacup crest over onto the saucer beneath, but Junmyeon only takes the proffered napkin, staining the linen with blotched poppies. "Your move," Junmyeon grins, and he looks young, far too young to be himself. But that's the point. There's a whisper, a flickering darkness that looks like feathers as he straightens on his chair; folds the napkin into a bird. Jongdae whistles, and it lifts its wings and flies away. "That's cheating," Junmyeon says, but he doesn't seem to mind. Jongdae shakes his head. "My turn." Clouds are gathering over his cup, whirling into a funnel as the surface dips down into a whirlpool, dragging the occasional floating tea leaf to the bottom. The reflected sky is gone, only disturbed motion, but sunlight still drips down onto his hair from the glass of the greenhouse roof, dapples shifting gently over the ground, the white linen tablecloth, as a faint breeze trickles through an open window somewhere, tucked away behind the green. Jongdae considers the board, chin resting on steepled fingers as the wind ruffles the feathers behind him, hidden from view. His piece has left the ocean, as a storm draws near, heading closer to the shore, the waves matching the violence in Junmyeon's teacup. Should I, or shouldn't I? If he lets Junmyeon have the upper hand for now. . .yes. The figure is only a flash of white amidst the trees, but Jongdae coaxes it, him, along, tiny gusts of wind nipping at his heels, the promise of sunlight ahead. The mountain, from far away, looks too captivating to resist. The storm in his mouth is sweet, crunchy with the tea leaf driftwood as he almost reaches the bottom, the whirlpool still angry in the vortex of clouds. The pieces meet. Clash. Red and white. It's hands off, but the game is tipped and Jongdae watches with feigned annoyance as white is wooed, captivated, seduced. The water in the river runs red, as Junmyeon's pieces leaves the mountain and Jongdae's piece stays, trapped by the rules. "Checkmate," Junmyeon says. Waving above his head, a single petal from a rose bloom falls, tugged loose by the wind. Lightning arcs out of his cup, leaping onto the board and setting a square ablaze as he lifts the storm to his mouth, drains the ocean dry. "I'll give you this preliminary round," Jongdae agrees, biting his tongue to hide his grin as he crooks his pinky, drawing the whirlpool into his mouth as the tea buzzes over his tongue. Junmyeon looks at him, but doesn't say anything, and Jongdae can see the corners of his mouth lift as his own grin is echoed in Junmyeon's eyes. "A toast to my victory?" Junmyeon proposes, glass in one hand and bottle of champagne in the other. There's a matching glass in Jongdae's hand; he twirls the fine stem between his fingers. "Temporary victory," he says, raising his glass, the pale gold liquid catching the light. The storm is over for now, but there are always storm clouds on the horizon, another appointment, another alternate Tuesday. They lift the glasses to their lips in tandem, drinking up another day of summer. The board rests on the table between them, and Jongdae watches idly as the seasons shift, red blossoms break open on their stems. "Why do you like red so much?" he asks, tilting his head to breathe in the fragrance of an orchid, one of the many in cantilevered pots around the greenhouse, ferns brushing the softness of his hair. "Why do you like storms?" Junmyeon asks, and Jongdae laughs. "You like them just as much as I do," he says, and Junmyeon nods, licking his lips as he stands, a fan of charcoal dusted wings unfolding from his back, flickering into this layer of reality as the greenhouse begins to fade. "Storms taste alive," Junmyeon replies, "the way red does." He watches as ivory feathers fan out behind Jongdae's back, the wind singing slightly as it wends its way through them. They're standing on a hill, on a beach, on a precipice overlooking the ocean. Far out, on the water, there's a storm approaching. "Next alternate Tuesday?" Junmyeon asks, and Jongdae can see the way his hair stirs, caught up in the growing wind, the way his eyes sparkle like he thinks he's already won. "Next alternate Tuesday," he replies, smiling, as Junmyeon takes off into the storm, the rush of his departure setting the long grass swaying. Jongdae just stands and watches the waves crashing onto the rocks, hand tucked into his pocket along with his extra turn. He has plans, and this game isn't over yet. End notes: 1. The origin of the phrase, a storm in a teacup 2. The quote by Cicero, used in the cut text, is from his De Legibus and can be translated as follows, For Gratidius raised a tempest in a ladle, as the saying is. 3. The title of this story is Bengali for a storm in a cup.