Disclaimer: I own no rights to Dragon Ball Z or its characters; I am making no profit from this story.
Hanabi
He proposed tonight.
I guess that's how I found myself up here instead of mingling with the crowd in the streets, wearing my sakura blossom patterned yukata and waiting for the hanabi celebration to begin.
His hands slide up to my waist in order to anchor me against his movements, and the fireworks start. They illuminate the walls of our room with wonderful explosions of color. If he's watching at all, I bet he's naming the different chemicals responsible for the vibrant reds and electric blues. I'm sure he's probably told me before, but I never paid enough attention to remember; I likely just smiled and squeezed his hand, complimenting him with my wonder at how smart he must be to know so many things. Flattery will get you pretty far with him, as long as he doesn't suspect you of manipulating him. Just like his mother, that man.
The fireworks display has picked up pace by this point, but I don't even notice the booming anymore. I'm not sure if I'm screaming from pleasure or pain, but he doesn't ask. He doesn't ask because this is the closest he lets himself come to the place inside that lashes out against the human bonds that restrict his Saiyan need for violence. He usually does a good job hiding it, but tonight I think he's forgotten I'm human. His sadistic streak runs deep, buried under layers of practiced charm and wit, but I've seen glimpses of it in moments like this: a rhythmic, controlled presence behind me; his fingertips digging into my narrow hips are practically shaking with the effort to stay in control of the desire to harm that's hardwired into all of them.
It's these nights that let me know he is just like his father.
But now my voice is hoarse, and I've screwed my eyes shut so hard that tiny sunbursts appear behind my eyelids- a fireworks display just for me. And then it's over. The crowds below give one last, long cheer as his body crashes to the mattress beside me. I get up to start a shower.
"Hey, Mare?" He yawns and props himself up on one elbow. "We're going to be so happy together."
I see the implication in his boardroom smile, hear it in the overly polite tones he uses in business meetings.
I understand.
With a demure smile, I clasp my hands together and nod. "Yes, we are."