Hanabi
Title: Hanabi.
Pairing: Jiyong/Seungri
Rating: PG
Summary: On incineration and smiling back.
Hanabi.
Our lives are changing fast.
Now now, Seunghyun, don’t lie, nothing’s changed, NOTHING. You’re still 15, little man, he’s still a god, you still want and can touch but won’t dare.
He’s scary. Yes he is. The most frightening thing that’s ever happened to you, he tastes like suicidal thoughts and nitroglycerin and some nights you want him so bad you could cry, you could rip the sheets apart with your teeth just to taste something other than imminent destruction.
Change, yes, he doesn’t sleep next to you anymore but if you were to slip inside the room with the keyboard and the balled papers on the floor, his feet would move to make room for you, his hands would find your neck as you slept and in the morning neither of you would have to talk about it.
He is simple, when it comes to you. He wants you. It’s that clear. One straight line, from your bed to his, that simple.
So you can go to his bed, Seunghyunnie, you can inhale his scent right under the ever-changing hairline like you want so much, perhaps you can fit his fingers in your mouth again this time, and maybe he’ll make this deep, lost sound that you love.
Again and again and again if you ask him, he can do it forever for you.
Ah, that’s it, you know. You have power over him-it’s terrifying.
It’s not in the small stuff, he’ll never get you water and you always have to steal his clothes.
But.
But he’d burn things down for you, he’d set himself on fire for you, and it’s so, so frightening because you don’t want him to burn for anyone, let alone for you. Unworthy sure, but besides that, you can’t take it when he pricks his finger-a reminder of mortality and you hate it, ok? You hate it.
But he would, and you don’t exactly have proof, but you know it, this is G-fucking-dragon we’re talking about, and when he loves, he’s draconian about it.
Unusually severe or cruel, oh yes, he can be, he can, but that’s not what you’re talking about. You’re talking about-
(he loves you)
You’re talking about the arms around your waist, about getting used to something sharp on your shoulder, about shiny words losing their glamour- you don’t want them anymore, on those nights, tonight all the time, you want him.
His lips are torture in the morning.
Sometimes you press your head on his door and wonder what if he opens it, can you call it stumbling, temporary insanity or gravity, can you tell him just this once, can you lie and beg for something he’d pay to give you?
Yes, and that’s the worst part, the loveliest part, the thing that makes this so bleeding and raw- you can have him, all of him, whenever you want, wherever and however.
That great, giant thing that you dream about, chew fingers and pillows about, it’s yours, Victory.
Because he won’t give you extra lines to sing but he’d step down from his flashing lights to grab your collar, spell out giant fuck you’s for whomever’s interested and kiss you against the floor with millions of girls watching, he would, you know he would.
You play this game sometimes because you're immature and self-destructive, when Youngbae’s hogging the remote and the ceiling is startlingly intriguing with its cracks and its stains. The things I could make Jiyong do, and your mouth goes dry.
You want them. You want all of them.
A hand on his neck and his tongue between your teeth and you want him to smile at the flash photography, you want him to show you teeth and gums and tell you fuck it. A public disgrace and a scandal, courts and fines and everything, for something real this time, not for a leg around his waist on a standing bed.
You want to push his limits to their breaking point and drive laughing past them, because that’s so much like a firework, so much like Kwon Jiyong and his appetite for incineration.
And about you, about flames on your shirtsleeves and burning alive- it’s ok, fuck that, you never mattered in the first place. You always knew- when it comes to him, you, you have no lines, everything’s a circle and a fall, you’re endless and depthless and if it’s your ashes he wants he can have them.
You’re all charred bones inside anyway, skin just an excuse to touch him, but thank God you don’t show it, thank God he doesn’t know it, because you’re not entirely sure what little dragons do with toy animals leaking their stuffing.
It’s alright. He’s half of it but he doesn’t understand the epic love breaking your shoulders, or how your knees are digging into the ground. He can’t, but not everyone’s half-man half legend.
And now, now he smiles at you like you’re the only thing he can focus on, like the rest of the world has bled into sepia tones, and you count pieces and doorknobs and sleepless nights in your head, and you smile back.
It’s ok, you’re a strong baby, the strongest of them all.
It’s fine, there are always new sheets to tear at.
You smile back.
A/N: My first attempt at g-ri ever, and my first attempt at posting something here. So go easy on me. Hanabi means firework in japanese.