maayacolabackup

Title: Uncertain (Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow)
Pairing: G-Ri (GDragon/Seungri)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~5,000
Summary: Seungri’s still trying to pull himself together, and Jiyong is watching with hungry eyes.
Notes: Just something short that I’ve been playing with in between longer things, since my current BB project is super plotty and I needed a break from Jiyong's POV. (And okay, I wanted to write porn.)

“You forgot your book,” Jiyong says, and Seungri pulls out his headphones as Jiyong steps into his room. Seungri is sitting at the edge of the bed, and Jiyong sits up at the head, resting his shoulders against the wall. “Yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Seungri says, and Jiyong frowns. His tank top hangs loose, and Seungri’s eyes trace the gold and orange tattoo beneath his clavicle, before gliding along his arms.

vita dolce

Seungri’s surprised when Jiyong moves. “There’s lint-“ Jiyong rolls forward onto his knees and reaches out a hand to Seungri’s face, pulling away a piece of down, maybe from Seungri’s comforter. He lets it fall and reaches forward again. “Your skin is so soft,” Jiyong says, letting the back of his index finger slip down Seungri’s cheek. “Everything about you is soft.”

Seungri closes his eyes, because even the tiniest touch is enough to quicken his pulse and make the room feel impossibly hot.

“Not really,” Seungri says, and he licks dry lips and scoots over on the bed, creating space between them. Jiyong lets his hand drop, but his gaze, Seungri knows, is lingering.

“Talk to me.” Jiyong’s voice is thick with demand, and Seungri isn’t ready to talk. “Stop fucking around and talk to me.”

Seungri is parched, like a man in the desert who has walked for days. He swallows, trying to alleviate the thirst, but it doesn’t help. His throat remains dry, and there’s only so long he can put things off before things get…

Seungri opens his eyes. Jiyong looks tired, and strangely small, sitting in the center of Seungri’s bed, legs curled up beneath him and eyes dark like coal, dark like ink, looking at Seungri like Seungri owes him some kind of answer.

Maybe Seungri does, and that’s enough to make Seungri want to close his eyes all over again.

Seungri scratches at his neck, right where it meets his shoulder. The collar of his shirt itches, and Seungri wonders if he’d used the wrong detergent, or if maybe it shrunk in the wash, or if he’s never really liked this shirt at all, and he just keeps forgetting that he hates it, putting the stupid uncomfortable thing back in his drawer without thinking.

Not that it matters right now. “I’m sorry.”

Jiyong frowns, a tiny one that curls down the corners of his lips and makes him look like a petulant child. “What are you sorry for?” Jiyong folds his hands together and tilts his head to the side, the way he does when Seungri is talking to him excitedly about something he doesn’t quite get, like stock prices or percentages on endorsement deals, and Seungri, all of a sudden, wants to move a little closer and into Jiyong’s quiet.

“Yesterday…” Seungri starts to answer, but he can’t find the words. Seungri always has words, but right now, they’re lost, buried somewhere inside of him that he can’t reach, so Seungri is left grasping at nothing as Jiyong looks at him with steady, unfathomable eyes.

Yesterday, Seungri had been lying on his stomach on Jiyong’s bed, and Jiyong had been next to him on his back, eyes on the ceiling and fingers laced with Seungri’s as Seungri had read from his book. Yesterday, Jiyong had rolled over onto his side, and there had been mere centimeters between them, and Seungri had been able to feel Jiyong’s breath on his cheek, warm and stale like cigarette smoke. Yesterday, Jiyong had slid his palm slowly and surely up and down Seungri’s back, and Seungri had set down his book and turned to look at him.

Yesterday, Jiyong’s eyes had flickered down to Seungri’s lips, and Seungri had noticed, and Jiyong had paused, like he was holding his breath. Yesterday, Jiyong had sucked his lower lip into his mouth and looked questioningly at Seungri for the briefest of moments, before leaning forward. Yesterday, Seungri had felt the trembling of Jiyong’s hand along his spine, and the way Jiyong’s body had fit so snugly against his own, and…

“When I kissed you,” Jiyong says, today, and there’s a forced nonchalance to the set of his shoulders. But Seungri knows Jiyong better than he knows himself, and Seungri can see the telltale signs of discomfort in the clench of Jiyong’s jaw, and the way Jiyong spins the rings on his left hand, eyes darting to the left as he pretends to be unaffected.

Seungri sits a little straighter, and presses his hands a little harder into his thighs. His legs still hang over the side of the bed, and the floor is cool beneath his feet, a little like a sheet of ice, even though the room is hot, but that might just be Seungri’s nerves. And the denim of his jeans feels rougher than usual beneath his palms, but that might be just Seungri gripping the material too tightly with shaking hands.

And yesterday, Seungri had closed his eyes, and Jiyong’s mouth had been soft, so soft, lips fluttering against his own almost like Jiyong was shy, and Jiyong had tasted simple, like rice and like tea (and cigarettes, too), and Seungri hadn’t known what to do.

“Yes,” Seungri says. “When you kissed me.” And Seungri forces himself to hold Jiyong’s gaze, and there, just for a moment, there’s a tiny spark of despair, before Jiyong shoves it down and juts out his chin, uncurling his back and facing Seungri head on. It’s a mask Seungri knows all too well—

(”How can you let them say that about you, hyung? You know you didn’t-”

“I don’t care what anyone says about me. I don’t care about anything but music.”)

-- and Seungri has never bought into it, because Seungri has his own masks, too. They all do, because they’re so god-damned jaded now that…

That flash of vulnerability in Jiyong’s eyes, though, quickly extinguished by Jiyong’s stubborn pride, makes Seungri’s heart stop, because it’s real.

And Jiyong is afraid, and Seungri’s still trying to pull himself together.

The comforter on Seungri’s bed isn’t as nice as the one on Jiyong’s. The comforter on Seungri’s bed doesn’t even pretend to be a cure for loneliness, because it’s so big and thick that Seungri never sleeps under it alone, and it makes him feel like he’ll be swallowed whole.

Sometimes, years ago now, when Seungri felt his most isolated, Jiyong found his way into Seungri’s bed, slipping beneath the comforter and tangling his legs with Seungri’s in the dark, nothing but sharp angles and cold feet that Seungri welcomed like a blind man welcomes sight.

The comforter on Seungri’s bed is the perfect size for two people, Seungri thinks, and there’s something wonderful about the way the navy fabric looks so dark against Jiyong’s pale skin in the early morning light.

Jiyong hasn’t gotten into bed with Seungri in a long time. Not since Seungri had started locking his door at night, like locking the door would keep his traitorous feelings outside of it along with Jiyong.

And Jiyong, Seungri realizes, is still waiting for Seungri to speak.

Seungri knows what it’s like to be afraid. Hell, Seungri feels like he’s spent so much time being afraid for the past six years that he doesn’t really remember what it’s like to feel safe and secure.

(“Do I really belong here?”

“Of course you do. Shut up.””)

But there have been moments of absolute peace. Like yesterday, when Jiyong had slowly, carefully, nudged closer, coaxing Seungri’s mouth open, until they were sharing air and Seungri could feel the wetness behind Jiyong’s lips. And Jiyong, shaking just a little, had pressed even closer, tongue sneaking into Seungri’s mouth to curl around Seungri’s. Jiyong’s hand had trailed up Seungri’s shoulder and buried itself in Seungri’s cropped hair, and his rings had gotten caught on one of the shorter pieces, and Seungri had unfolded beneath the slow pressure, letting Jiyong taste and take.

“Maknae,” Jiyong says, and Seungri comes back to now, and Jiyong’s voice is smooth and clear and familiarly nasal, and Seungri marvels at the way it’s perfect, echoing in his ears and in his heart. “Just. Say something. Anything. Even if it’s to tell me to go to hell. To tell me I’ve ruined everything.”

Jiyong’s slowly slipping into a defensive posture, and his bangs have fallen into his eyes. Seungri’s only seen Jiyong like this once before, when Seungri had looked up at him through wet eyes as Jiyong had explained about mistakes and investigations and strangers with cigarettes, and Seungri had wished he were stronger.

Seungri doesn’t want Jiyong to look like that, because Jiyong’s not meant for defeat. Jiyong is meant for triumph and ego and a little bit of angry superiority that’s as damning as it is intoxicating. Jiyong is meant to be a star but he isn’t meant to fall, no matter how many wishes it would grant. Seungri holds that thought close, and manages to speak.

“I’m sorry for running away.” And Jiyong gulps, and Seungri’s eyes watch his adam’s apple, and he wants… Seungri wants to feel that movement against his lips.

Yesterday, Seungri’s mind had caught up with him minutes too late, and Seungri had pulled away from Jiyong, panting and gasping with uncertainty. Jiyong’s eyes had been wide and dilated, and Seungri had felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room, in the world, for him to ever catch his breath. Yesterday, his thoughts had been racing, and all he could think about was how everything was twisting and changing as he exhaled, morphing into some terrifying unknown that could mean disaster.

And yesterday, Jiyong had studied his every expression, searching for approval or acceptance or something, anything, that would give him a clue, and Seungri hadn’t been able to muster up anything that wasn’t this overwhelming, crippling desire to hide away. “I need to think,” he’d managed, and then Seungri was gone, out of Jiyong’s room and into the hallway, and he’d forgotten his book and his phone and maybe his heart, and the hallway was cold and his mouth was still warm.

Today, Seungri’s still trying to figure things out, but the pieces are starting to fall into place.

“Was I… I thought it would be okay,” Jiyong says. “Maybe I misread-“

“No,” Seungri says, cutting Jiyong off. Jiyong hates that, almost as much as he hates being questioned behind the scenes, but Seungri can’t stand to hear the way Jiyong sounds so unsure. It makes his stomach sink because Jiyong isn’t supposed to sound like that… not because of Seungri. Never because of Seungri. “I just never expected that you would want…”

Seungri doesn’t mean yesterday. Seungri means all those yesterdays, all the way back until the first time Seungri met Jiyong, with wide-eyes and oh-so-eager to please a boy only two years older than him who seemed so very wise. Seungri had hated the way his stomach jumped all the way up into his throat when Jiyong had looked at him. The way that Jiyong had made him feel like a shaken bottle of soda with every careless touch or whisper into Seungri’s ear; like he’d explode or combust, emotions spilling over fizzy and wild. He had hated it, and he had also loved it. Loved how special it made him feel.

Like the whole world was alight.

Seungri has always, always, been moving closer to Kwon Jiyong.

“Never thought I’d want… what? You?” Jiyong swallows. “You’re so stupid.” Jiyong’s hands, his hands, fold together, fingers twisting around each other and betraying Jiyong’s real emotions.

Seungri realizes, now, that he had never really noticed that Kwon Jiyong had also been moving closer to him.

“I didn’t know you’d… I’m not…” Seungri wants to say he’s not as amazing as Jiyong is. That he’s the odd man out in a group of titans, the lone mortal, and he’d never expected for Jiyong to look at him twice.

But then Seungri remembers the way Jiyong’s arms wrap around his waist, pulling him against Jiyong’s thin chest, heartbeat steady as a gentle summer’s rain against Seungri’s back, and the way Jiyong’s smile, as Seungri plays with his hands, leaning against his shoulder, is so soft and easy. And maybe Seungri and Jiyong make more sense than Seungri had thought, because Jiyong only smiles like that for him. “I was confused,” Seungri says.

“Are you confused now?” Jiyong asks, and he’s tentatively leaning closer, pushing the book out of the space between them, and it’s easier than Seungri had thought it would be to let him, leaning back until his elbows hit the bed. Jiyong is above him now, his face large and sideways in Seungri’s vision. Strands of faded orange hair fall into his face, and Seungri, whose hands are trembling? shaking? moves them away. The door is open. Seungri guesses that doesn't matter.

“No,” Seungri whispers, and Jiyong kisses him again. Jiyong’s nose presses against his cheek, and Jiyong’s lips taste more strongly of cigarettes today, and Seungri’s always hated cigarettes but he doesn’t mind them as much as he did when he was a teen, because over the years he’s grown used to the subtle cling of ash and smoke, just as he’s grown used to the press of Jiyong’s thick and heavy jewelry against his side when Jiyong hugs him too tight. It’s a part of Jiyong, and Seungri embraces all parts of Jiyong, even the parts that hurt.

Jiyong is not gentle by nature, even though he sometimes feigns it when there’s something he wants. Jiyong is sharp and cutting and rough and needy, and today, today, Jiyong is all of those things at once, demanding entrance into Seungri’s mouth as he grabs a fistful of Seungri’s shirt and pulls Seungri closer. The stupid collar cuts into Seungri’s throat, and he definitely hates this shirt, and it doesn’t really matter, right now, but Seungri’s thoughts are racing uncontrollably, and his hands are holding onto Jiyong’s shoulder and side for dear life.

Jiyong hisses into Seungri’s mouth, and Seungri realizes his nails are digging into Jiyong’s skin, and he licks at the inside of Jiyong’s cheek in apology. Jiyong growls in response, and pulls back, and Seungri gasps for air, or balance, or some relief from the spinning that’s making him feel so very dizzy.

“Okay?” Jiyong is staring down at him from above, lips swollen and slick and eyes narrowed and feverishly bright.

“Yeah,” Seungri croaks, and Jiyong smiles, slowly and dangerously, like a predator. Seungri’s know that smile usually means Jiyong’s about to say something embarrassing about his porn collection, or hit him in the face repeatedly with a microphone while he’s trying to talk.

Today, right now, it means Jiyong is going to pull Seungri up into a sitting position with the handful of Seungri’s shirt he’s still got clutched, before pushing at the center of Seungri’s chest until Seungri scoots back, moving up the bed until Jiyong’s decided he’s moved enough, straddling him before Seungri can even processed that he’s moved.

It’s movement electric when Jiyong’s hips press into his own, and Seungri’s mouth falls open at the rub of his denim, and the friction between their bodies as Jiyong thrusts into him. Jiyong takes advantage, claiming his mouth again, seeking Seungri’s moans and tracing the backs of Seungri’s teeth with an eager, challenging tongue. Seungri’s weight is supported by his arms, and he’s strong but they feel weak as Jiyong pushes closer and closer, licking at the insides of Seungri’s cheeks and stealing Seungri’s every exhale.

Today, Seungri can’t imagine running away, because Jiyong’s got him pinned, hands sneaking their way up under Seungri’s shirt and skimming across Seungri’s stomach the same way they skim across silk blouses when they shop, like he’s touching something he likes.

Like he’s touching something he wants to own.

Seungri thinks he might like to be owned, and it’s that thought that makes his arms give out. Jiyong laughs darkly as Seungri falls backwards, and Jiyong follows, his wiry arms pressing into the mattress on either side of Seungri’s head.

“I’ve always wanted,” Jiyong says against Seungri’s lips, before he catches Seungri’s lower lip between his teeth and bites down. Seungri whimpers, because it hurts, and he’s a wimp, but then Jiyong soothes the bite with his tongue and laughs. “I wanted to tattoo my name across your back and your chest so everyone would know your mine.”

Seungri shudders as Jiyong sucks on his pulse point, hard enough to leave marks that Seungri probably won’t be able to cover with make-up.

“I don’t like needles,” Seungri says, and he thinks Jiyong doesn’t need to use tattoos to mark Seungri as his, because he’s been using his touch like indelible ink for years, branding his fingerprints into Seungri’s back and warning the others off with possessive touches and words that sink beneath Seungri's skin and leave behind a permanent stain.

(”I don’t think I can-“

“I’ll hold your hand, maknae.” A teasing grin. “It’ll only hurt for a minute.”)

“I know,” Jiyong says, and then he presses his open mouth to Seungri’s throat, licking at where the collar of his shirt still digs into his skin. Jiyong sits up, and then he’s pulling at Seungri’s shirt, and Seungri tenses his abs and lifts himself up enough that Jiyong can tug it upwards, and off, and then Jiyong is sliding his hands across Seungri’s chest, leaving trails of fire in the wake of determined hands.

Seungri feels completely exposed under Jiyong’s focused gaze—Jiyong’s complete attention has always made Seungri feel stripped, and now, Seungri feels like Jiyong is looking inside of him, reading all of his insecurities and weaknesses and faults as clearly as if they were music notes Jiyong had written himself.

Seungri should have turned off the light.

“Hyung,” Seungri says, and Jiyong looks up, and today, today, Seungri can see through Jiyong, too, and Jiyong wants him. Seungri can feel Jiyong’s need from his toes to his fingertips, and it’s beautiful, and wonderful, and Seungri can feel himself reacting to it; everything feels ten degrees hotter and a hundred times more intense, like Jiyong is on fire and dragging Seungri into the flames.

Seungri can’t stop the tiny mewls that climb their way out of his mouth as Jiyong’s nimble fingers meander across the muscles of his stomach, lingering in every dip and rise of Seungri’s abs, teasing along the line of hair that disappears beneath the waistline of his jeans. “Shhh,” Jiyong whispers, and Seungri loves the way Jiyong licks his lips, like he’s hungry and he’s going to devour Seungri alive.

Seungri wants him to.

Jiyong tears off his tank, and Seungri’s eyes seek out every familiar mark, and he wants to touch, but he can’t seem to pry loose his death-grip on the comforter. His heart is racing so fast, and Jiyong, above him, is so… So much everything he’s always been, and maybe Seungri’s remembering all the times he’s wanted to slide his hands into Jiyong’s hair and drag him near, or all the times Jiyong had leaned in too close and Seungri had wanted him to lean in even closer, but it all feels like a dream. Maybe Seungri’s afraid that if he touches, Jiyong will disappear, and Seungri won’t feel him, hard in his sweatpants, pressing against Seungri in a way that Seungri has only allowed himself to imagine in his weakest moments, alone in the shower with one hand curled around himself and his forehead pressed to the cool tile as water pounds relentlessly against his back.

“I’m real,” Jiyong says, and he kisses Seungri again, slowly grinding down with his hips as he presses his lips to Seungri’s mouth and nose and the space in between, where Seungri’s laziness has allowed a bit of stubble to grow. “This is real.”

“Okay,” Seungri says, and his lips brush against Jiyong’s cheek, and this time it’s Jiyong who shudders, and Jiyong who sighs, and that gives Seungri the ability to slide his hands down Jiyong’s back, enjoying the way his muscles tighten beneath the steady slip of Seungri’s exploring palms.

For a moment, time seems to stop, and Seungri can only feel Jiyong’s heavy breaths in his ear; can only feel Jiyong’s heart beating in time with his own; can only taste the remnants of an afternoon cigarette and smell Jiyong’s flowery shampoo mixed with his masculine scent.

And then time starts again, and Jiyong is easily undoing the fastening to Seungri’s jeans with one hand while the other presses Seungri’s sweaty bangs out of his eyes. The first touch of Jiyong’s hand as it slips into his trousers is gentler than Seungri expects, but it’s probably because Jiyong can’t get a good grip on him with his jeans in the way. Still, Seungri groans, low, and Jiyong smirks, before he slides down, eyes narrowing as he watches Seungri’s face. Seungri feels flushed and hot, and he’s not sure what the expression on his face is, but Jiyong seems pleased, smirk growing larger as he stops at Seungri’s navel, planting a soft kiss there as he pulls at Seungri’s jeans and briefs.

Seungri lifts his hips to help and Jiyong tugs them the rest of the way, past his ass, low enough that Seungri can kick them off when Jiyong moves to his right. Seungri holds his breath as Jiyong studies him, and then releases it in a low moan as Jiyong takes him into his mouth with a motion that is anything but tentative.

Seungri fights to keep his eyes from rolling into the back of his head as Jiyong’s tongue circles the crown of his cock, teasing back the foreskin and finding the sensitive skin underneath. “Hyung,” Seungri manages, and Jiyong suddenly takes him all the way, until Seungri can feel the back of Jiyong’s throat, and it’s too much, and Seungri wants to thrust upward so damn bad, but Jiyong’s palms press hard into his hipbones to hold him down. Seungri settles for fisting his hand in Jiyong’s hair, not too tight, because Seungri is gentle, and Jiyong smiles with his eyes, lips stretched, sinfully, around Seungri’s length.

Seungri is glad that neither of them has remembered to turn out the light.

Jiyong’s single-minded pursuit of perfection is apparent even in the way he sucks Seungri off, methodically unraveling Seungri’s composure until Seungri is a panting, shivering mess on the bed, completely under Jiyong’s power.

It’s a lot like the way things always are between them, Jiyong guiding Seungri to exactly where he wants him and Seungri following blindly because he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

When Seungri feels like there’s nothing left to do but crawl out of his own skin, Jiyong releases him, slowly crawling back up Seungri’s body after shedding his sweats, and Seungri’s saliva-slick cock slips against Jiyong’s stomach, and then they’re rubbing against each other with nothing between them as Jiyong reclaims Seungri’s mouth.

Now, Seungri can taste himself, too, and Jiyong moans into Seungri’s mouth as Seungri rocks his hips up for more friction; more of Jiyong.

Seungri breaks the kiss, and Jiyong looks down at him curiously until Seungri spits into his palm and hesitantly slips it down. Then Jiyong smiles and licks at Seungri’s mouth again, hot air and shared breaths, as Seungri hesitantly takes him in hand. He slowly fists him up and down, until Jiyong’s exhales become uneven and staggered, and Jiyong pulls Seungri’s hand away, lacing their fingers together for the briefest moment, sticky and sweaty and perfect.

“My turn again,” Jiyong says, and Seungri doesn’t question Jiyong, because Jiyong likes to be in charge, and Seungri is used to following Jiyong’s directions. Then Jiyong frees his hand and moves so he’s resting on one elbow, bicep tense in a way that shows the recent work he’s been putting in with Hwangssabu, and Seungri desperately kisses every part of Jiyong’s face he can reach until Jiyong is laughing, just a little, smiling down at Seungri in that way he does when he’s pleased. The way he does when Seungri’s done something right.

(”Did you-“

“I listened.”

“And?”

“Not bad, maknae. Not bad at all.” A heavy hand on his shoulder. “I might even listen again.”)

And that, more than anything, makes Seungri feel like falling over the edge into oblivion, the same way he does when he imagines that expression on Jiyong’s face when he touches himself.

Seungri is flying. Seungri is soaring. Jiyong is touching and tasting and taking and Seungri lets him, and it’s just like it’s always been, except now it’s more.

And today, now, Seungri is not confused. Seungri is not afraid. Seungri is just falling under Jiyong’s spell one more time, as deep as he can go, and Jiyong is smiling.

Seungri has always, always, been moving closer to Kwon Jiyong.

Jiyong bites his lip determinedly as he reaches between them and wraps his hand around them both, and Seungri’s so close it’s almost too much. Jiyong leans down and kisses him sloppily, messily, and then Seungri is coming, spilling on himself and on Jiyong, and he thinks Jiyong is right behind him, forehead resting against Seungri’s as they both breathe heavy into the quiet night. Seungri’s light is too bright.

“Fuck,” Jiyong whispers, and his arms tremble as he holds himself up, not wanting to fall against Seungri and make a bigger mess.

Seungri reaches over the edge of the bed, still thrumming from head to toe, and his hands find that uncomfortable t-shirt, and he uses it to wipe up the mess between them before throwing it back on the ground.

“Your tee?” Jiyong says it with the distaste of a man who loves his clothes, and Seungri wants to laugh because some things never change, even when everything else suddenly has.

“I hate that shirt,” Seungri says, and Jiyong laughs as he lowers himself down, landing clumsily on Seungri’s chest, legs falling on either side of Seungri’s right leg.

“Maknae,” Jiyong says, and Seungri turns his head slightly, and then Jiyong is kissing him again, slow and deep and Seungri thinks this comes as naturally as breathing.

Seungri doesn’t know how long they kiss, but it feels like forever, Jiyong’s hand gripping tight enough to bruise on his forearm, Jiyong’s weight half on Seungri half on the bed.

Yesterday, Seungri hadn’t known what to do. Today, Seungri kisses back.

And really, this is just like everything else, Jiyong rushing in and Seungri dealing with the consequences. Jiyong, unpredictable and brash, and Seungri, careful and measured. Jiyong quiet and Seungri loud.

Seungri, today, isn’t going to worry about Jiyong flashing hot and cold, or Jiyong sticking his hand into Seungri’s chest and tearing out his heart just because he can. These are things Seungri will worry about tomorrow, when Jiyong isn’t pouring all of his focus into Seungri’s mouth and letting Seungri taste being the center of his world.

When they part, Seungri looks into Jiyong’s eyes, and Jiyong is studying him, something anxious in his expression, and Seungri just wants to kiss him again. Seungri thinks Jiyong would like that too.

And then Jiyong smiles, and Seungri thinks everything might be okay, after all.

Jiyong pulls the comforter over them both, and Seungri should turn on his air con unit, and turn off the lights, but the remote is just out of reach and he’d have to get up to flip the light-switch, and Seungri just wants to lie here. Jiyong takes the decision away from him, throwing an arm across Seungri’s waist and pinning him to the bed, and Seungri sighs and accepts that he’ll just sweat.

Seungri starts to fall asleep to the even rhythm of Jiyong’s breathing.

It’s strange, because there aren’t any words that Seungri feels need to be said, or any declarations that need to be made. Seungri likes to fill the silence, but this silence feels so full already with the things they don’t have to say.

So Seungri closes his eyes, and sleeps.

Sometime in the night, Seungri shifts, and there’s a heavy weight on his leg, and he opens his heavy eyes to look down at the foot of the bed. Gaho’s head rests on his shin, and Seungri sighs.

“Your dog is in my bed,” Seungri says, and Jiyong smiles without opening his eyes.

“Of course he is,” Jiyong says, and Seungri purses his lips and considers. “I tried to train him to bite you every time you came home late, you know. But he must have known I didn’t really mean it.”

“You did mean it,” Seungri says, and Gaho’s wrinkled face peers up at him, and Seungri thinks maybe he can get used to that, too. “Does he always get into bed with you?”

Seungri thinks he knows the answer, but sleeping in the same bed as Jiyong is something Seungri hasn’t done in a while. Jiyong’s arm feels as heavy as Gaho across his waist. “Yes,” Jiyong says, and presses his face into Seungri’s shoulder. “Part of the package.”

“Okay,” Seungri says, and that’s alright. Seungri likes dogs. Seungri likes Jiyong’s dog.

Jiyong sniffles, and wriggles a bit closer, and his elbow digs into Seungri’s belly and Seungri winces and holds still anyway until Jiyong is comfortable. Gaho whines when Jiyong accidentally bumps Gaho and Seungri both with his leg.

Seungri likes dogs, but Seungri loves Jiyong, and even though Seungri is sweaty and sore and it’s too hot and his leg is slowly going to sleep… well, despite all that (and maybe, somehow, because of all that), Seungri is happy.

His comforter is too big for one person, but it’s just right for two, and Jiyong has always fit perfectly into his side.

Just for tonight, Seungri won’t worry about what happens in the morning.

Because Seungri has always, always, been moving closer to Kwon Jiyong, and this, right now, Seungri thinks, is as close as he can get.