Red
Title: Red
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dae-Ri
Word Count: 917
Genre: Angst
Summary: It is not the color he sees when Seungri grins at him, the corners chipped and maybe a little broken.
AN: Because I'm having mild writer's block, and this thing practically wrote itself. Hoepfully I can focus on that fic I keep promising Martina for her birthday OTL. I just need a little more motivation T_T
The clock is ticking quietly in the living room, a backdrop to the low hum of the television. Outside, it looks like the dark clouds are weeping over the city of Seoul, the droplets falling steadily, drenching everything outside. Daesung just stares at the television, only half focusing on the images on the screen. He only has to turn his head a fraction, dart his eyes to the opposite side of the couch to see Seungri sitting, side pressed as far away from him as possible.
But Daesung doesn’t. He stares ahead, closes his eyes for a second to take a deep breath and maybe focus on the screen in front of him. The silence between the two is…empty. There’s nothing there, not a comfortable silence, but not tension. No calm sense of acceptance and no rejection either. Seungri would be just the same if Daesung would decide to get up and leave. And, that hurts. Maybe more than even Daesung is willing to admit to himself. And Daesung wonders, idly, if nothing is worse than something.
Because even having something bad means that there’s something there. The clock continues ticking quietly, the metronome of its tick-tock one of the few noises in the room. The air conditioning is on, (Daesung wonders why, its already starting to get chilly outside) and he gets up, leaves the warmth of the couch to turn it off. When he returns, the thumps of his steps echo inside their empty apartment, the sound strangely melancholy and lonely to his ears.
He sits down, running a hand tiredly through his hair before focusing on a rip that has begun to appear on his jeans. He focuses on it, wondering for a second if it’s something that he’s done to cause the tear, but can only partially concentrate. The fine hairs on the back of his nape stand up, it feels like someone’s watching him. Daesung tries to ignore it by staring steadfastly at his jeans, hands coming to rest across his lap. He hopes the feeling will stop.
But it doesn’t, and Daesung wonders when he’ll ever catch a break. He dares a quick glance to the side before dragging his eyes down again. And so it takes him a moment to register that it is, in fact, Seungri who appears to be staring at him from across the couch. Slightly, the fingers across the blue fabric scrunch up, wrinkling the jeans in his grip. He looks up again, this time looking straight at Seungri. There’s a question in his eyes, and Daesung is almost afraid he’ll ask him something. Almost.
“Hyung, can you, can you explain a color without using the word itself? How would you show the color red to someone who’s never seen it before?” And it’s then that Daesung really looks, sees a book nestled safely in the gap of Seungri thighs, the ears dog-eared from many nights reading. Daesung just blinks, surprised that Seungri is talking to him, and what’s even more, about something that’s not about food or their schedules. The longer he takes to respond though, the less Seungri seems… open. Daesung can see it, minutely, as that apprehension moves across Seungri’s face.
It’s in the slight furrow of his brows, as if contemplating if asking Daesung was a good choice. The way he’s looked away now, face filled with indifference and not curiosity. Slim fingers tap slightly, no longer clutched confidently against their book. Come back, Daesung wants to say. Stay a little longer, don’t close yourself off. But there’s a lot of things Daesung wants to say.
He wants to say that red is the color of the filling of baked goods at the corner store they all went to once, all those years ago. When they were trainees and had only a couple of won between the six. It was the edge of someone’s nose, after hours spent outside playing in the snow. It was the color of his father’s shouts, the tint of his shame when he found out Daesung wanted to be a singer. When they practiced until two in the morning, it was the color of their determination. When he sang, it was the color of his pulse.
And that’s all Daesung wanted to say it was. Except it wasn’t, because it was the color of Seungri’s lips, when he whispered a joke in Jiyong’s ear. When Seungri was accepted back into Big Bang, as the final member, it was the color of his victory, bright and powerful and painful. When he had heard the younger man cry at night, before the rest of the world even knew who they were, it was the color of his pain. When Seungri sang, it was the color that bled from his heart. And when Daesung looked at him, one day, standing on that stage with the taste of cheap soju at the back of his throat, it was the fading color of his heart falling to his knees.
It is not the color he sees when Seungri grins at him, the corners chipped and maybe a little broken.
“Never mind hyung, it was a dumb question after all. I guess it’s not possible.” And he goes back to his book, with only a minute glance to Daesung. There are a lot of things Daesung wants to say. But he can’t, and he won’t.
And he looks at Seungri one last time, wonders if red is the color of a broken heart.