maayacolabackup

*

Seungri isn’t afraid of rejection.

He’s been rejected before, and he’d stood there and taken it.

“There’s a ten percent chance,” Yang Hyun Suk had said, when only Hyunseung and Seungri were left standing, heads bowed, in front of him and the mirrors and all of their teachers. “If you stay, and you practice and train, there’s a ten percent chance that you’ll get to pass. It’s up to you if it’s worth it.”

Seungri had stayed. Seungri had stayed, and he had practiced, and in the end, ten percent had been enough. Seungri has passed. Seungri had been enough, after all.

Loving Jiyong is kind of like that. Only this time, there’s less than a ten percent chance, and maybe if he stays and stays, someday, he’ll pass all of Jiyong’s tests, and Jiyong will love him, and Seungri will be enough.

Only this time there’s no time limit, and Seungri knows, if after all is said and done, Jiyong still doesn’t accept him, there aren’t second chances, and Seungri will never be able to put himself back together again.

Besides, Jiyong is always changing the rules, so Seungri can never win this game, no matter what his name is.

*

Big Seunghyun leans forward and pushes Little Seunghyun’s hat down over his eyes. “You’re too nice, kid,” Big Seunghyun says, and Little Seunghyun smiles at him.

“What do you mean?”

“You keep letting Jiyongie push you around.” He clicks his teeth. “You gonna let him do that forever?”

“I can take it,” Little Seunghyun says. “I’m the youngest. It’s my job, right?”

“You’re getting strong,” Big Seunghyun says. “But no one is that strong.”

“I am,” Seungri replies, and it’s nothing but bravado, but he’ll make that a trademark.

*

Seungri and Youngbae are the only ones who go out for food. Jiyong and Seunghyun are probably fast asleep, and Daesung declines, opting to go to the gym instead. “I’ll get something quick afterwards,” Daesung says. “I feel tight from the plane.”

Youngbae, with a beanie pulled low on his brow, and Seungri, wearing jeans and a nondescript hoodie, don’t stick out very much on the street. It’s easier to blend in without brightly colored clothing and striking hair… Youngbae and Seungri just look like two guys in a million here, especially with their faces obscured with sunglasses, in a country where they aren’t exactly household names. It’s nice.

Youngbae walks like he knows where he’s going, but he doesn’t, really. They wind up walking all the way up to 58th street. In the end, they stop at a place called Whym, where they are slightly underdressed, and Seungri can barely read the menu, so he just orders based on Youngbae’s loose translations, something with chicken and avocado that sounds nice and American.

They eat mostly in silence, Youngbae sipping at his water more than he picks at his salad, pushing the food around on his plate. He seems anxious, or nervous, and Seungri figures he’ll come out with it in his own time.

“Seungri,” Youngbae finally says, and Seungri puts his sandwich down on his plate, looking up at Youngbae, who seems to finally be gathering up the words he wants to say. “I wanted to ask…”

“Yeah?” Seungri says, picking up a fry and playing with it. It’s weird to eat meals without rice. “What?”

“There’s something…” Youngbae presses his lips together hesitantly. His hands toy with his fork, spinning it between his fingers because Youngbae can never sit still. “Sad about you. Less bright.”

”The best point about Seungri is that he glows,” Jiyong had whispered, and Seungri gasped as Jiyong had dragged his pen cap across the inside of Seungri’s forearm. “He’s so bright he can light up a room.”

“What do you mean?” Seungri doesn’t look up, eyes focusing instead on the watch around his wrist. The leather band is getting a bit worn. It’s not as flashy as the rest of his jewelry. His mother had given it to him for his birthday last year. It’s dull in comparison to the bracelet on his other wrist.

“I mean… for a long time now, you’ve looked…” Youngbae sighs. “I don’t know. Empty.”

Seungri swallows. “Hey, now, I’m the smartest of us all,” Seungri jokes. “Nothing empty here!” He raps lightly at his head with his knuckles, showing his teeth to Youngbae to deflect. “I’m insulted, hyung.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Youngbae says, setting his fork down. “You know it isn’t.”

Seungri lets his smile fall. “What do you want me to do?” Seungri says, and Youngbae frowns, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”

”While watching you the past few weeks, I noticed some change in you.” Yang Hyun Suk leaned to the side to rest on the arm of the sofa. “And if I give you two years instead of two weeks… I’ll see even more change, right? You’re confident in that right?”

“Yes, I’m confident,” Seungri replied, trying to keep from crying.

“So you’ll work hard, right? Don’t disappoint me with your effort.”

“I’ll work hard.”

“Seungri, no.” Youngbae sounds confused. “Is there anything… what’s wrong?”

“It’s not anything you can help with,” Seungri says, and he remembers the way the others used to tease him when cried. The way Seunghyun would put his hand up to his face and pretend to be him, shoulders trembling and voice thick with tears. Seungri isn’t that boy anymore. Seungri can deal with things on his own. “I’ve been sad awhile, huh?” Seungri twists his bracelet on his wrist, enjoying the weight of it in his hand.

“Months,” Youngbae says, and Seungri laughs a little, and it sounds okay, he thinks. Almost like a real laugh.

It’s funny; Seungri had never realized that all the acting classes he’d taken in university would be necessary for real life.

Maybe he’s not really cut out for acting, after all.

“My heart figured it out before my head did, I guess,” Seungri says, and he picks up his sandwich and takes another bite.

“Have we done-“ Youngbae struggles with the words, because as good as he is at comforting, he’s not good at awkward conversations. Youngbae knows what to do with a Seungri that cries, but he probably has no idea what to do with a Seungri that refuses to.

“It’s not your fault that I prefer the whip to the carrot.”

“What do you…?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Seungri says, and he’s knotted up inside, because he knows, now, that he has to, before everyone starts to notice.

Seungri is cracking, weakening in the wind, his leaves scattering in every direction.

*

“I might be just a small or big person in BIGBANG but I realized that I cannot lose my light. When all five members are shining, BIGBANG shines. If one member loses his light, there is no BIGBANG anymore.” - Seungri

*

“Do you hate me?” Seungri asks, and Jiyong turns to look at him with cool eyes. His lower lip is swollen from biting.

“Now’s not the time for this,” Jiyong says. “Do you really think that now is the time for this?” Jiyong gestures to recording studio, where Youngbae is reading from a lyric sheet and getting ready. Jiyong is watching the whole recording session, because Jiyong likes to get really frustrated before he records his own vocals, and Seungri imagines that in the future, if they succeed, when they succeed, it’s always going to be like this, Jiyong at the helm of this ship.

TOP and Daesung have stepped out for air, because it’s boiling hot July and it’s even hotter in the recording studio, where the ventilation sucks and where Seungri has staunchly remained. He has more to prove, it feels like. He can take the worst.

“Sorry,” Seungri says, and he wishes, just a little, that he Jiyong didn’t make him feel so painfully young. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Jiyong mutters, licking his lips and turning back toward Youngbae to give him two thumbs up. “And no.”

“No?” Seungri asks, and Jiyong reaches out blindly, not bothering to look away from the glass wall of the recording booth. His hand finds a fistful of Seungri’s t-shirt, and Seungri is pulled closer, until the sweaty skin of his arm brushes Jiyong’s. Seungri likes the way they stick together, when they touch.

“I don’t hate you,” Jiyong says, and Seungri can hear the tiniest bit of gravel in his voice, and Jiyong releases his shirt but doesn’t move away, or ask Seungri to, either. “Don’t be so sensitive. Don’t be a baby. Don’t demand too much from me.”

“I won’t,” Seungri says fervently, and it’s a promise he’ll do his best to keep.

*

Perhaps because Seungri was the last to be chosen, Seungri is the first to worry he’s not doing enough.

He wakes up in the morning feeling lethargic, but he quickly climbs out of bed and does sit-ups and push-ups to wake his muscles.

Jiyong looks worse at breakfast, complexion a chalky white and mouth tight and drawn. He puts five sugars in his coffee, like he always does, and stirs it recklessly, spilling some of the drink over the sides.

“Well, isn’t this a cheerful breakfast,” Seunghyun croaks, when he makes it downstairs to the hotel breakfast room ten minutes late. “Not so fantastic, baby.”

“Jiyong looks like he’s going to die,” Youngbae says, “and Seungri might not be far behind.”

Daesung leans to the side and pokes at Jiyong’s face. “Hyung, are you going to be okay?”

“Of course I am,” Jiyong snaps, and Daesung withdraws immediately.

“Oh boy,” Seunghyun says. “Everyone’s just so chipper. So who’s excited for the concert?”

The ride to the theater is quiet. It only takes about five minutes, but Jiyong looks better when they arrive, a little bit of color coming back into his face. Seungri wants to ask if he needs anything, but Jiyong will say he doesn’t, so Seungri doesn’t waste his breath.

Jiyong does lean on Seungri’s shoulder, though, his soft cheek mashing into Seungri’s leather jacket, and Seungri can’t help but let his hand wander up to Jiyong’s hair and toy with the strands of it. The tension slides out of Jiyong’s body, and Seungri’s stomach twists.

At least one of them can relax.

Rehearsals go well, because now they know the choreography and the performances so completely that they can do it all in their sleep.

During lunch, Jiyong slips away, and Seungri focuses on Daesung, who keeps making bizarre gags using their meal as props, and on Seunghyun, who echoes him and embellishes, like some tag-team of ridiculousness that makes Seungri forget, for a while, about the sick feeling that’s found a home in his gut.

He excuses himself to go find the restroom, and when he finds it, Jiyong is sitting on the floor in the hallway, curled over his cell phone.

“Girlfriend?” Seungri asks, and Jiyong looks up, confused for a moment, before his face clears.

“No, Chaerin,” he says, and he smiles. “She’s having a ‘leader-problem’.”

“Dara-noona again?” Seungri says, flickering his gaze, taking note of Jiyong’s slightly shaky hands and the thin sheen of sweat along his skin.

“Of course,” Jiyong stretches his legs in front of him. There are holes in the knees of his pants. He probably bought them that way.

“Ah, it’s hard work being leader, isn’t it?” Seungri wants to sit down next to Jiyong, and let Jiyong tangle their legs together at the ankle. Maybe press a kiss to Seungri’s neck.

Seungri is a masochist.

“Chaerin doesn’t have you,” Jiyong says, and Seungri gives in, sitting down next to Jiyong and leaning his back against the wall. “My maknae.”

“I’m so cute you can’t possibly be stressed, right?” Seungri says, and Jiyong smirks.

“Is that what you think?” Jiyong’s voice lilts like a songbird as he speaks, and Seungri clenches his hands into fists. Jiyong’s mouth is shiny in the dim fluorescents, and Seungri remembers, with startling clarity, the way that mouth had felt dragging hot and wet across his collarbones, leaving tiny marks in it’s wake.

That was a long time ago.

Seungri’s almost forgotten. It hadn’t meant anything, anyway. That’s not what Seungri is to Jiyong. Not what Jiyong wants him to be.

Seungri blinks.

“What else am I good for?” Seungri says, and Jiyong looks at Seungri with a strange shadow in his eyes.

“You’re my muse,” Jiyong says. “In more ways than one.” Jiyong stands abruptly. “Lunch is almost over.” And then he’s gone, leaving Seungri sitting alone in the hallway, shivering at the sudden chill in the air he hadn’t noticed when Jiyong was sitting right next to him, because Jiyong is like a fire.

Seungri is like glass. He’s fine in the fire, and he can take the heat, but when the fire is taken away, and he’s left to cool suddenly… that’s when he cracks, fissures running through places inside of him that should be solid after all these years. That should be stronger.

Seungri is never strong about Jiyong.

He gets a text from Dara. make your leader stop giving chaerin advice! all of it is terrible.

no can do, Seungri replies. i do what leader tells me, not the other way around.

he’s got a soft spot for you, seungri, Dara texts. and i think chaerin is about to take things medieval back here in seoul.

behave, Seungri texts, and then he leans back against the wall, still feeling the warmth Jiyong left behind.

*

Another start.

“Go away,” Jiyong says, as Seungri knocks tentatively on the door and peeks his head in. The room is mostly dark, but Jiyong is not asleep. He just sits there, eyes on the ceiling, mouth set in a deep frown that pulls at the bow of his top lip.

“Is everything alright?” Seungri asks, sitting on the edge of Jiyong’s bed. Two months ago, Seungri wouldn’t have dared, but Jiyong’s changed presence in his life lately, a physical presence that Seungri can’t ignore, has made him braver.

Jiyong is still. It’s strange, because even when Jiyong is alone, he’s never still. He’s always moving his hands, or nodding his head to a rhythm only he can hear. “Go away,” Jiyong says again, and Seungri hesitates.

“Are you sure-“ He reaches a hand toward Jiyong’s shoulder.

“Leave me alone,” Jiyong growls, and he grabs at Seungri’s wrist, nails digging into the skin like a warning.

“Okay,” Seungri says. “Sorry. I just thought you could tell me, if something was wrong-“

“Why would I tell you anything?” Jiyong’s voice is low and harsh, like it’s ridiculous that Seungri had thought they were friends, or that Seungri might be someone worth confiding in. Maybe it is ridiculous, Seungri thinks, and to his embarrassment, he feels his eyes sting.

The wayward branch.

“Right,” Seungri says, and he pulls his wrist free from Jiyong’s grip and quickly exits the room, covering his face as he walks to his room. Once he’s inside, it’s okay to cry. Seungri hates to cry in front of the others, unless he’s in trouble and it will get him out of it.

And he’s getting too old for that, too.

Anyway, it’s stupid that he’s crying, because it’s stupid that he’d started to think maybe Jiyong had let Seungri inside his wall, if only just a little.

He presses his back against his own door, and he hears Youngbae sink down on the other side of it.

“Can you hear me?” Youngbae asks, and Seungri sniffles.

“Yes,” Seungri says, and Youngbae sighs.

“Don’t take it personally,” Youngbae says. “It’s not you.” Youngbae clears his throat. “You’ll learn to stay away during the quiet times.”

“Yeah?” Seungri asks.

“Yeah,” Youngbae says. “I just have years of experience.”

Later, when Seungri’s stopped feeling sorry for himself, and changed into his pajamas, he walks out to get some water from the kitchen. Jiyong is sitting on the sofa in the living room, hands clenched on his own knees.

“Seungri-yah,” he says, and Seungri pauses, and Jiyong leans his head back, to look up at him. His gaze beckons Seungri closer, and Seungri obeys, sitting down on sofa next to Jiyong, a good two feet of space between them. Jiyong sighs, and tugs on Seungri’s arm, dragging Seungri down into his lap.

“I’m not a easy person to deal with,” Jiyong says, running his hands through Seungri’s hair. Seungri’s eyes are still puffy from tears, and Youngbae is watching Jiyong carefully from the kitchen, like Jiyong is a kettle about to steam. “I can be mean.”

“Sometimes,” Seungri says, and Jiyong’s nails scrape across his scalp.

“I can’t control it,” Jiyong says. “I’m just like this. It’s who I am.”

“I know,” Seungri mumbles, lips pressed into Jiyong’s denim-clad thigh as he lies in Jiyong’s lap, legs stretched across the sofa.

“Then why are you here?” Jiyong asks, voice sharp and a little too loud. Youngbae turns quickly to look at them, but Seungri doesn’t acknowledge his questioning gaze. Jiyong doesn’t mean any kind of figurative ‘here’, Seungri knows. Seungri lifts his arm and grabs a handful of Jiyong’s t-shirt, the fabric soft in his grip.

“I don’t know,” Seungri says, because he doesn’t. All he knows is that Jiyong is addictive, like a drug, and even when it’s hard to be close to him, Seungri doesn’t want to pull away.

“How far will you let me push you?” Jiyong asks, and there’s something hidden in the question that Seungri doesn’t understand.

“I don’t know,” Seungri replies, and Jiyong’s hand, steadily combing through his hair, lulls him into a half-sleep.

“Don’t demand too much of me,” Jiyong warns. “You’ll only be disappointed.”

*

Seungri used to think there were two G-Dragons. G-Dragon on stage, and G-Dragon off-stage. G-Dragon bare-faced and tired and mind racing with ideas and moments and tickling harmonies, and G-Dragon with his eyes rimmed with black, adrenaline pumping and a blank, powerful emptiness in his eyes as he takes in the screaming crowd.

Seungri is older now, and he knows better. Now he knows that there are two Jiyongs, and it doesn’t have much to do with the stage at all.

There is the Jiyong that feels too much, and the Jiyong that doesn’t feel nearly enough.

It’s like Russian-Roulette, Seungri thinks, and every time he talks to Jiyong it’s like holding a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. That’s all right, though, Seungri thinks, because he’s gotten used to the way the bullet feels embedded in his brain. It hurts, but not enough to make him too afraid to try again.

Seungri doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to pull away from Jiyong, Because sometimes, Jiyong smiles at him like he’s the only person in the room, and Seungri feels like he can fly.

*

A false start. It only happens once, but once is enough to make things complicated, at least for Seungri.

Jiyong’s mouth is insistent, covering Seungri’s lips like he wants to devour him, and Seungri is just as weak to this assault as he is to everything Jiyong does. Jiyong’s hands find their way up inside Seungri’s shirt, tracing distracting patterns along the skin at Seungri’s waist, fingertips gently stroking there even as his mouth is brutal and relentless. Seungri gasps at all the sensation, but Jiyong takes it as an invitation, tongue slipping in and curling eagerly around Seungri’s, and Seungri is lost.

Seungri is always lost, with Jiyong, because Jiyong is like the rolling sea in a lightening storm and Seungri is just a tiny rowboat trying to stay afloat in the midst of it all, water leaking in between rotted wooden boards and paddles long ago swallowed by the waves.

Seungri is always lost, and right now, he’s not sure he wants to be found, because even though he’s confused and anxious and terrified, the way Jiyong’s entire being is focused on him makes Seungri feel like drowning might, in the end, be the only relief he ever gets.

“Seungri,” Jiyong whispers against the wet skin of his chin, and his voice is low and dangerous and Seungri just closes his eyes so he can hear it more easily, letting his own name on Jiyong’s lips slow the too-fast beating of his heart. Seungri doesn’t know what to do with his hands, pressing them against the wall behind him as he leans against it for support.

“Hyung,” Seungri says, and maybe some of his desperation, some of his fear, shows in his voice, because Jiyong pauses, hands stilling and settling on Seungri’s hips. His mouth, hot and slick with saliva, maybe Seungri’s, maybe his own, drags across Seungri’s cheek and stops at his jaw. Seungri can’t breathe.

“Do you want me to stop?” Jiyong whispers, the husky tone sending a shiver down Seungri’s spine, and Seungri is helpless to his own want.

Jiyong takes and takes and Seungri knows this will hurt later, because it always does, but he doesn’t really know how to do anything but hurt with Jiyong anyway. “No,” Seungri says, and then Jiyong’s hand is slipping down the waistband of his track pants, lips like fire on the skin of Seungri’s neck.

“Okay,” Jiyong says, and Seungri shatters beneath him.

They don’t talk about it. It doesn’t happen again.

Seungri wonders if this is another part of Jiyong’s game.

*

Seungri thinks it is perhaps the greatest tragedy of his life to have fallen in love with Kwon Jiyong.

He wakes up in the morning with a weight on his chest that feels like a ship anchor, holding him down beneath the water, pushing him into the ocean floor, making it impossible to breathe, and now that feeling has a name. Love.

Once, Seungri had thought falling in love would be amazing and beautiful, like a revelation that would make everything more lucid. It is like that, but it’s also like being torn apart into thousands of pieces, shredded by reality and dreams deferred. Everything is achingly clear, and all Seungri wants to do is close his eyes.

Seungri starts to regret, just a little. (Okay, maybe a lot.)

*

Their first ever American show is loud. It’s so loud; even louder than it had been in Europe, and the sea of multicolored faces is enough to spin Seungri’s head. The other members are thrumming with it too- there’s a bit of extra swagger to TOP’s walk, and Jiyong is flying across the stage. Youngbae is doing cartwheels and backflips, and Daesung’s voice is soaring, and Seungri feels like he’s full of energy.

It’s like the troubles that have been haunting him the past week have melted away in the face of this: BIGBANG, at the end of the day, is the biggest source of Seungri’s happiness, even if sometimes it’s the biggest source of Seungri’s despair, too. He lives his life on the edge of his seat.

Seungri knows, in moments like this, when Tonight is blasting from the speakers, and an entire arena is filled with people singing the words to their song, in a language most of them probably don’t even know, that he’d never trade any of it for anything.

Seungri’s life isn’t perfect, but no one’s is, and right now, Seungri feels a little like he’s touching heaven.

Seungri’s not the weak branch, tonight. He’s a strong lower limb, filling in the empty spaces. Blooming.

Seungri’s eyes meet Jiyong’s, and Jiyong is glowing, an incandescent figure even amongst the neon lights, and Seungri is going to explode.

After the last bow, Jiyong loops his arm around Seungri’s neck and kisses his ear. “Good job, maknae.”

Seunghyun mimics him, kissing Seungri’s other ear, and Jiyong playfully growls. “What? I can’t congratulate maknae on riling up the girls, too?”

“Maknae is mine,” Jiyong says, and Seunghyun laughs.

“Yeah, we all know. I’m not trying to lose a hand or anything.” Seunghyun pushes his glasses up on his sweaty nose. “Maknae doesn’t want us, anyway.”

Seungri grabs Jiyong’s hand, and it’s an unfathomable electricity, and Seungri wonders, as he gazes at Jiyong’s perfect smile, the pink of his gums and the white of his teeth bright even under the backstage lights, if he’s always been Jiyong’s and now he just knows a name for that belonging.

“Ready for the encore?” Jiyong yells over the screaming crowd, and Seungri feels like he can soar.

*

Jiyong can be just like a child.

Playful like a child.

Jiyong takes a handful of the frosting and rubs it across Seungri’s face, laughing joyously as Seungri sputters, licking as much of hit as he can off of his mouth and turning to stare at Jiyong, who’s got the sticky pink sugar all over his fingers, and a bit on his own mouth.

“Maknae looked too serious,” Jiyong says, and Seungri reaches a hand up to touch the frosting in disbelief. “Now you look sweet.”

The frosting tastes sweet, and Seungri starts laughing, and Jiyong slings an arm about his neck and mashes their cheeks together. They adhere with the frosting, and Jiyong is laughing and laughing, giggles rambling over each other and making Seungri feel as though there’s nothing but helium inside them both, and they’ll float away together smelling of strawberry frosting and idyllic moments.

Selfish like a child.

”Maknae is mine,” Jiyong says to the camera, as if to remind everyone in the world that no one else is allowed to touch.

“Clingy much?” Seunghyun says, once the cameras aren’t rolling, and Jiyong frowns and wraps his arms around Seungri. Jiyong is stronger than he looks. All wiry strength and determination. Seungri doesn’t fight the embrace.

“I don’t want to share him,” Jiyong says, and Seungri swallows, and tries not to read into it.

After all, Seungri is only a toy that Jiyong wants when he thinks someone might take it away.

Destructive like a child.

Jiyong throws the glass at the wall. “It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not,” Seungri says calmly, even though his heart is hammering in his chest. “Heartbreak is hard.”

“What would you know?” Jiyong says, standing up from his desk and cornering Seungri, taking both hands to shove him into the wall. “Tell me what the fuck you know about heartbreak, maknae.”

Seungri winces, because Jiyong’s fingers are digging into his shoulders and the wall has no give behind him. Jiyong presses his forehead to Seungri’s sternum, hands going lax, and Seungri reaches up to hug him.

Everything, Seungri wants to say, but he doesn’t, because it’s something he shouldn’t feel.

“I’m sorry,” Jiyong mumbles into his chest. “I’m going to break you one day, maknae.”

“I know,” Seungri says, and wonders if Jiyong hasn’t already done it.

Innocent like a child.

When Jiyong is happiest, he looks at the world like everything is beautiful.

He writes the lyrics to Butterfly on the walls of his bedroom with a cheap number two pencil, and Seungri watches him. Jiyong looks like a butterfly himself, brightly colored and fluttering, and this is the side of Jiyong that Seungri cherishes the most.

Jiyong looks over at Seungri, eyes alight with a passion that makes him seem almost feverish, and Seungri’s heart climbs up into his throat and stays there.

Jiyong can be just like a child. Sometimes.

*

Some starts are more ambiguous.

Seungri wakes to Jiyong sitting astride him, strong thigh on either side of Seungri’s hip, one hand pushing into the small of Seungri’s back.

“Hyung?” Seungri asks, and day hasn’t broken yet. Only moonlight illuminates Seungri’s room. His sheets press rough into his cheek.

“Shh,” Jiyong says, and that’s when Seungri feels the marker on his back. Jiyong’s right hand is using Seungri’s back as his notebook; a canvas for his art. Seungri can feel the felt tip of the marker brushing along the skin, wet and soft, and the smell of alcohol fills the air.

“What are you-?”

“I ran out of pages,” Jiyong says distractedly, and on the bed, Seungri sees discarded sheets of lined paper and the bursting spiral book, and he exhales.

Seungri doesn’t respond. He just lets Jiyong use him to get all the words out, the marker almost soothing. He can feel the hangeul stretching across his shoulder-blades and winding down his spine, the side of Jiyong’s hand trailing across his flesh, sticky with smeared ink.

“Yes,” Jiyong whispers. “These are the words I wanted.” He looks down on Seungri with a half-lidded gaze of satisfaction, and Seungri can feel himself getting hard. He wills it away.

It’s not like that; it’s not supposed to be like that. Seungri shudders. Jiyong traces his own writing with an idle finger, and it tingles. Seungri’s skin feels oddly tight.

In the morning, Jiyong lies asleep next to him, hands black with ink and lips curled into a full smile. Seungri quietly rises and retreats to the bathroom, and when he sees himself in the mirror, he has to bite down a gasp.

He’s got lyrics down his arms, in the crooks of his elbows, and he’s got words rubbed out on his chest, illegible letters climbing his neck and disappearing into his hairline.

Jiyong appears behind him, messy hands resting on Seungri’s hips.

“All my words are in you,” Jiyong says, and Seungri feels something change inside of him. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s as bittersweet as the end of summer.

*

The magnificent morning shines through the curtains
Your outstretched hand calling to me
Secretly, come to my bed
Quietly, so know one will know

-G-Dragon, Breathe

*

“What are you doing?” Jiyong asks, and Seungri takes another drag of his cigarette. The New York air is a little thick, but in the dark, Seungri can’t see how gray it is. In the end, all cities are the same, anyway, especially on a cool September evening when it’s all streetlights and cars and shut-down-for-the-night buildings with occupied offices on the upper floors.

“What does it look like I’m doing, hyung?” Seungri asks, and Jiyong walks up beside him, to lean on the rail. The expensive red leather of his jacket is stark against the hotel’s black-painted railing. It kind of looks like blood, Seungri thinks, as Jiyong stands close enough that their arms brush.

“I mean, why do you look so pensive?” Seungri looks at Jiyong out of the corner of his eye, and his face is so pale in the evening light, only starshine and neon illuminating his profile. He looks like a ghost, Seungri thinks, dangerous and almost transparent.

Still, his presence is overwhelming. Seungri takes another pull of smoke. “I’m not pensive. I’m just enjoying the quiet.”

“New York City is never quiet,” Jiyong says, and his voice is huskier than usual, maybe a little raw from their show. It’s the second night, and that’s always the roughest on the Jiyong’s voice, before he gives in and starts using antiseptic sprays to sooth and calm his inflamed vocal chords. “Just like Tokyo is never quiet. Just like Seoul is never quiet.”

“It’s quiet enough,” Seungri says, and now he drinks from his glass, a bitter rum that sits funny in his stomach but makes him feel better than he’d felt before he stepped outside.

“You don’t even like the quiet,” Jiyong says, and he reaches over and steals the cigarette, inhaling and letting the smoke out from his nose. It’s stark in the air, starker than it looks when Seungri releases it from his own lips. Maybe it’s just that the things Jiyong does always seem more vibrant in Seungri’s eyes. More bright.

“I do, sometimes,” Seungri says firmly, and Jiyong leans closer, until they’re aligned enough that Jiyong can rest his head on Seungri’s shoulder. “Like the quiet, I mean. I get tired, too.”

“If you say so,” Jiyong says, and Seungri reclaims his cigarette, and takes another sip of his drink. “Are you going out tonight?”

“I was thinking about it,” Seungri hedges, and taps his drink gently against the rail, enjoying the tiny chime as the glass hits the metal. Traffic on the street below seems so much dimmer in comparison to that sound, and the sound of Jiyong’s breathing. There’s a wheeze in his exhale that worries Seungri. “You still sound like you’re getting sick.”

“I am,” Jiyong says. “So stay home with me instead.” Jiyong straightens and pulls away, grabbing Seungri’s forearm and dragging him back inside. “Keep me company.”

“What if I want to go out?” Seungri says, but he can already feel himself caving, trying to remember which of his bags his favorite sweatpants are in, and whether or not he should go out and get carry-out, or call for room-service, so Jiyong can stay inside where it’s warm.

Jiyong releases him, and he sets his glass down on the small table, and puts his cigarette out in the ashtray there.

Jiyong collapses on Seungri’s hotel bed, sprawled out until his small body fills the space, and a peek of pale skin appears between his jeans and his t-shirt. “I don’t care,” Jiyong says. “I’ll get lonely.”

Seungri sits down on the edge of the bed and looks down at Jiyong, who is looking up at him with heavy eyes. A small smile tugs at the corner of Jiyong’s lips, because he knows he’s won. He always wins.

It’s Seungri who is named V.I.C.T.O.R.Y, but it is Jiyong who is the victor.

“You should go to sleep,” Seungri says, and even as he speaks, he’s shrugging out of his jacket, standing up to lay it across the chair. “How’d you even get in here?”

It’s Seungri’s room. They make enough money and paid enough dues that they all get their own rooms now, when they travel. They’re doing international concerts, and they see enough of each other anyway. Seungri likes having his own space. He likes playing at being an adult.

“I’m the leader,” Jiyong says. “I asked manager for your key.” He shimmies out of his red leather jacket, and Seungri takes it from his hands without asking and lays it on top of his own. “She didn’t give it to me, but she let me in.”

“Oh,” Seungri says, and it’s the blue bag, he thinks, that will have his sweatpants. He digs around in the bag, wrinkling his clothes, and when he finds the sweats, he straightens, the fabric of them soft in his hands from so much wear.

Jiyong is already asleep, somehow, his chest rising slowly up and down and his mouth soft in slumber. He looks innocent, when he’s asleep. He looks gentle.

He’s not either of those things, but with his eyelashes a stark black against his smooth pale skin, he looks like an angel. Seungri stares at him for a moment, taking in the sheen of sweat on his forehead that makes Seungri think he might have a fever, because it’s too cool in the room for Jiyong’s jacket to make him perspire.

Seungri sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, mussing it, and retreats to the bathroom. The tile is cool beneath his feet, and the water from the faucet takes too long to warm up, so Seungri uses the cold to wash his face, freeing it from the last of the stage make-up. He’d like to shower, but Jiyong is particular- he’d wake up to the sound of the water drumming against the tub, and Seungri doesn’t want to disturb him. So he just changes into his sweats and drags his t-shirt over his head, leaving it and his jeans in a pile on the bathroom floor.

He texts Youngbae that he isn’t going out, and Youngbae texts him back a frowny face that makes Seungri smile. Seunghyun will go; he’d been pumped up earlier about it, and he’s liable to drag Daesung with him. Youngbae won’t be alone.

He sits down on the bed again, and doesn’t bother to pull down the sheets. Instead, he grabs the blanket at the end of the bed, pulling it up over both of them. Seungri rolls so he’s looking at Jiyong, and carefully, slowly, presses a hand to Jiyong’s forehead. It’s hot. Jiyong always gets sick at the worst possible moment.

He remembers when Yang Hyun Suk had announced the final member cut. Jiyong had gotten deathly ill, his voice hoarse and his body weak. He’d pulled through. It had been Seungri who’d been cut.

Seungri should call their manager, probably, and go and wet a towel with cold water for Jiyong’s head. He starts to get back up, sore muscles aching from the show, and Jiyong moves, all of a sudden, and wraps an arm around Seungri’s waist, pinning him to the bed. “Don’t go,” Jiyong says, and it’s hot air against the cool bare skin of Seungri’s shoulder, where the blanket doesn’t reach.

Seungri swallows, and closes his eyes. He can still taste the cigarette smoke and rum in his mouth. He forgot to brush his teeth.

“Do I ever go?” Seungri asks, and it’s a rhetorical question. “I just keep staying. I always stay.”

“Good,” Jiyong says. “Because I’m selfish.”

“I know,” Seungri says, and he brings his outside are up to brush Jiyong’s hair from his face. The strands are soft, and a bit damp. “I know that better than anyone.” He whispers it, but Jiyong’s fingers tighten, pressing hard enough to bruise.

“Then why do you stay?” Jiyong asks, and he doesn’t mean just tonight. He means all nights, like this one, when Seungri stays and stays, and does whatever Jiyong asks of him just because it’s Jiyong who has asked.

Seungri doesn’t know. He’s been trying to figure it all out for years and years, and he’s got nothing to show for it but a more resilient smile for the cameras, one that hides more than it reveals, and a heart that beats too fast when Jiyong smiles at him in that way that makes him feel like he’s the only person in the universe.

And yes, maybe that’s the whole story right there, in that smile: Seungri has tried and tried to feel nothing about Kwon Jiyong but at the end of the day, he still feels everything.

“One day,” Seungri says, after a long pause, (and maybe Jiyong has slipped back into sleep already,) “I’ll know the answer to that.”

Jiyong doesn’t answer, but Seungri doesn’t really expect him to. Jiyong’s arm slips around him more fully, more like a hug than a demand now, palm flat on Seungri’s lower back, the two of them lying face to face. Jiyong slips a leg in between Seungri’s, like he does whenever he sneaks into Seungri’s room, seeking inspiration or warmth or whatever Jiyong is looking for in him that he doesn’t seem to be able to find in of anyone else. Seungri used to shake, nervous and anxious and confused. Now, Seungri still feels all those things about Jiyong, but he doesn’t shake, because Seungri has become stronger, but Jiyong’s embrace still makes him feel weak.

Seungri opens his eyes, and his light is still on, and Jiyong’s fevered gaze almost looks through him. The denim of Jiyong’s jeans chafes, even through Seungri’s sweats. “Do you love me, maknae?” Jiyong mumbles, and he smells like Seungri’s cigarette and expensive cologne.

“Yes,” Seungri replies, because he does, he always does, even when it hurts.

Jiyong pulls and tugs, and Seungri is sure he’ll snap off the tree under the pressure.

*

Seungri starts a conversation.

“Sometimes,” Seungri says. “I do like the quiet.”

“But?” Jiyong is distracted, one hand stroking the bone at Seungri’s ankle, and the other hitting keys on his laptop. Seungri’s room is filled with sound as Jiyong plays with a melody. Seungri is surprised he answers at all.

“But not for long,” he says, and Jiyong turns to look at him. “Because when I’m left alone with my thoughts I’m afraid I might go crazy.”

Left alone with his thoughts, Seungri always finds Jiyong. Jiyong’s smile that is Seungri’s sun and Seungri’s moon, and every star in Seungri’s sky.

Seungri doesn’t want to find Jiyong. Seungri longs for a time when everything made sense.

Jiyong studies him now, and Seungri’s insides are too warm, too tangled up.

Then again, Seungri wouldn’t trade Jiyong for anything, and maybe that’s the problem.

“I’m already crazy,” Jiyong says. “When I’m left alone with my thoughts,” he twists a piece of hair around his finger, “they become music.”

“And when you’re left with me?”

“You become the words.”

*

“You talk like you’re in love with him,” Dara says. She’s lacing up her sneakers. It’s 2NE1’s first Inkigayo performance, today. Seungri just wanted to wish her luck.

“Of course I’m not. That would be stupid.”

“I don’t know why you think you’re so smart,” Dara replies. “You’re just as dumb as any other teenage boy, even if you know how to invest in stocks or whatever.”

“Falling in love with Kwon Jiyong would be dangerous for someone like me. I’m too practical.”

“Okay,” Dara says, and she ruffles his hair. “Wish me luck, kid.”

“Good luck,” Seungri mumbles, and Dara’s words