stardust • hsr & gi oneshots

v. falling like the stars ◞ ‎ yingxing

Memories of a fleeting lifespan are but wisps of wind in the storm of time, yet you cling to such an infinitesimal existence, enamoured by the radiance of a singular star that shines despite it all. But alas, the brightest stars in the sky are fated to burn the shortest, their descent fiery and destructive — and now you pay the price to keep a dying star burning.

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THERE'S A REASON WHY THE STARS ARE SO DISTANT, made to be admired from afar.

Because they are not mere scatterings of light that glisten faintly in the skies above, rather, existences shrouded within raging fires that set the world alight. They burn all who dare reach out their hands to grasp it, pulling them down — and continue to burn so very brightly even toward their imminent destruction, descending in an unforgettable blaze upon this world.

That's the danger. Yet you've drawn too close to such an existence knowing such, blinded by his momentary spark against the universe. It's become interwoven into every fibre of your own being, this burning brand promising devastation from the moment you had thrust your hands into that fire willingly, bared to it your body and soul.

Because to love him, as Icarus had loved the sun, is there anything more destroying, more undoing?

"Yingxing." His name is like a prayer upon your lips, uttered softly beneath the glow of the morning sun, your eyes meeting his own in wonder. As when the sun catches his hair like that and turns it into white fire — what else can you think, that he's not divinity itself?

You're enamoured by him, this brilliance in the cusp of your hands. Even his touch brings forth a heated, feverish bliss, as if to set your skin aflame, tingling with wondrous pleasure that has you leaning into him as if entranced. It leaves you craving, your heart writhing in desire, pounding in synchrony to his own amid your intermingled breaths.

And he loves as fervently as the flames that wreath his passions, with an all-consuming ardour. You're addicted to the lingering taste of ambrosial nectar upon his honeyed lips, and the way he whispers the sweetest nothings in your ear as if to worship your very existence, seeking to memorise every inch of you beneath his careful scrutiny, pertaining to the gaze of the divine itself.

For is he not blessed? As amid a star's radiance, too lies a bright mind — a craft that surpasses even the greatest legends, the very essence of creation at his fingertips, himself a heaven-sent gift. He outshines them all, once revered historic artefacts nothing but pieces of scrap metal in comparison to relics dipped in such incandescent starlight, shaping dreams with his bare hands.

He presents to you such dreams, speaking of souls that shall never be parted as he holds a silver ring out to you, gleaming with the lustre of the moon itself, the fire that flickers in his eyes beckoning. And you, entranced — you take his hand in your own, seeing only the brilliance within these flames that you reach your hand out towards.

But do you know? If you're not careful, you'll burn with him, consumed by the same fires that fuel his existence. The light that emanates from such stars is not only bright and dazzling — at its nexus, it is a destructive fire that ravages and tears worlds apart in its blinding fury.

It is why the brightest stars are fated to burn the shortest, even if the idea is inconceivable to you. For it is the becoming of his downfall among blessings of divine ingenuity, rooted in this tragic paradox of a singular curse that puts all to shame. His existence is brief among this world, trapped within the limitations of mortal flesh.

And it is by such limitation does he desire to shine even more brilliantly, producing miracles upon miracles before your eyes. He wishes to prove himself over and over — to the world and to you. He'll keep giving until he can't.