KPop: For the Weak (GDae, R)
Oct. 29th, 2012 12:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maayacolabackupTitle: For the Weak
Pairing: Daesung/Jiyong…ish
Rating: R
Summary: Jiyong likes being needed but hates to need. (2k)
Notes: for sleepy/unconscious on k_b
Notes ii: I’m playing with this bc my GRi wip is getting heavy and I needed a break.
Jiyong stays up for days and days, scribbling into notebooks and yelling ideas into the recording program on his mobile phone and swearing under his breath. He curls his fingers too tight around his pens, sometimes snapping them in his thick, strong fingers until there’s ink welling in the webbed skin between them. As time bears onward, he hunkers more and more into himself, moving from the desk to the cold floor, and he switches from his notebook to his fancy customized tablet as he fiddles with music programs and tries not to let his hands shake from a combination of caffeine and nicotine withdraw.
Sometimes Daesung watches him and wonders if he’s falling apart. Daesung knows a thing or two about what that’s like; numb hands peeling themselves off the steering wheel and legs stumbling out of the car before his brain can catch up.
Unlike Daesung, though, Jiyong falls apart slowly; pulling himself into pieces, and he doesn’t have anchors to hold onto like Daesung does. Daesung has his faith, and his family. Jiyong has nothing and no one, because he doesn’t believe in anything and he never lets anyone close.
(Everyone but Daesung has tried to be Kwon Jiyong’s confidant, but Daesung watches Jiyong carefully; has watched him carefully for years, and he knows better. Kwon Jiyong will never have a confidant because he doesn’t want anyone to have that kind of power over him.)
Jiyong’s hair, now, is the blue and pink of carnival cotton candy, and by what Daesung, from years of experience, estimates is the sixth day of staying awake, the skin beneath Jiyong’s eyes is a complementary purple.
Daesung’s not sure if it’s self-punishment, stubbornness, or arrogance that keeps Jiyong awake. Jiyong’s a combination of those, so maybe it’s all three.
“We’ve got a show tomorrow,” Daesung says quietly, wondering if it’s all right to rest his hands on Jiyong’s shoulders. Jiyong barely spares him a glance, so he does. His shoulders are tight under Daesung’s hands, but he doesn’t pull away. Daesung figures it must be his turn as Jiyong’s favorite, again. He’d thought it was Youngbae’s.
“Don’t you think I know that?” His voice is raspy, an empty echo. Cigarettes are destroying the tone. Daesung doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t approve of singers who smoke. “Stop worrying about my voice.”
Daesung would say “I’m not,” only he doesn’t lie, and he’s not about to start with Jiyong, who sees through lies almost as easily as he tells them.
“You’ve just put out a mini-album,” Daesung says instead. “And we’ll be on tour until next year.” Daesung’s arms hurt. He’s just finished at the gym, and he should go home and shower. But the light had been on, when he’d walked by the studio Jiyong always commandeers, and he’d ignored the sweat slowly drying on his skin, pulling it tight, to look in on him. “You don’t need to push yourself here.” There are other places for Jiyong to run himself ragged. Daesung knows better than to tell him to take care of himself.
“There’s a new boy group,” Jiyong says. His lips are white like chalk, skin cracked. Daesung wonders about the last time Jiyong ate. Knowing Jiyong, it’s been as long as it has been since Jiyong’s left this room. Maybe twenty hours. Maybe longer. Jiyong’s wearing rehearsal clothes. He’d probably come here after they’d ran through the choreo for Majimak Insang yesterday. They’re flying out in eleven hours for Los Angeles.
“They’re not a threat,” Daesung says, unassuming because he knows Jiyong likes that. Jiyong has always liked how quiet Daesung is. Daesung likes that Jiyong doesn’t demand anything from Daesung but the calm that comes naturally.
“Obviously,” Jiyong says. “I’m writing songs for them. A couple. Only these are all too personal to give them.” He’s got ink along his knuckles as he taps aimless patterns against his knees. His hair is greasy.
“All your songs are too personal,” Daesung says. “Do you want me to bring you food?” He squeezes Jiyong’s shoulders, and Jiyong looks up at him, catching his gaze.
They stare, for a moment, as Jiyong considers whether he’s going to snap or not. But this is Daesung, and Jiyong’s always used a softer voice with Daesung. Youngbae has a joke that he and Jiyong are the carrot and the stick, but that’s never applied with Daesung. Daesung always gets the velvet glove over the iron fist.
“I don’t need food,” Jiyong replies. “I need more time. More hours in a day.”
“I think you’ve made as many as you could.” Daesung’s hair is sticking to the back of his neck. He should shower. He worries a lot about his skin.
“Never enough,” Jiyong says, and he turns back to his tablet. The corners of his lips are turning down in frustration.
“I’m leaving,” Daesung says, and Jiyong furrows his brow. He shrugs, like he doesn’t care whether Daesung stays or goes, but there’s disappointment in the forward curve of his neck. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. With food.”
Jiyong had brought Daesung food, back then. Back when Daesung had found it hard to call up his appetite. He’d sat across from Daesung, in Daesung’s desk chair, and watched him until he’d taken every bite. Daesung had tried to thank him and Jiyong had shrugged like it was nothing, but Jiyong is always like that. Daesung had taken Jiyong to church with him, after that, and Jiyong’d shifted uncomfortably in the pews as Daesung had whispered prayers under his breath.
Daesung can’t figure out if Jiyong doesn’t believe in God, or if he thinks he is God, and either way, it makes it harder, sometimes, for Daesung to know if it’s okay to hold Jiyong’s hand. (Daesung had slid hesitant fingers across the gold embossing on the copy of ‘One of a Kind’ that Jiyong had handed him and wondered if Jiyong was trying to reinforce the idea of his own religion.)
“Fine,” Jiyong says, and Daesung can see Jiyong’s mind leaving their conversation, his eyes turning glinting and fractured like a broken window, and Daesung steps back, away. “I’ll only eat it if you stay and eat it with me, though.”
Daesung smiles, because Jiyong manipulates like it’s second nature, but Daesung has never minded. “Sure,” he says, and he retreats as quietly as he entered, leaving the parts of Jiyong that are left to curl back into creativity. “Be back later,” he says, but he’s not sure Jiyong hears him.
*
When Jiyong finally sleeps, he is impossible to rouse. After a solid twelve hours where he’s dead to the world, he exists in a transitory state, half asleep and half awake, lucid enough to be demanding and sleepy enough that he doesn’t couch it backhanded compliments.
After they perform in LA, Jiyong goes to bed. Daesung doesn’t bother to check on him for a solid day, letting him sink into his hotel bed as Daesung and Seunghyun explore the city, as Youngbae calls his new girlfriend back in Seoul, and Seungri sneaks off to get in trouble, like he’d done in Vegas, coming back with hickeys in obvious places and two buttons missing from his dress shirt.
When they get back, though, that’s when Daesung slips into Jiyong’s hotel room to make sure he’s alive. He sits down next to him on the bed and stares, a bit, before he moves close enough to hear Jiyong’s rasping breaths.
Jiyong likes being needed but hates to need, and that’s what makes him so hard to get close to. When he’s tired, though, Jiyong lets Daesung push his hair back from his forehead and run fingers across the lines of his face. There are crowsfeet at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t look twenty four in sleep. He looks older.
“What?” Jiyong mumbles, and Daesung laughs as Jiyong tries to pull himself more awake. He fails, and his eyes fall closed again.
Daesung likes Jiyong like this. When Jiyong forgets that he doesn’t trust anyone very far, and that he should be making more use out of these empty hours than he is.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat as he dips his fingers into Jiyong’s collarbones, and Jiyong’s eyelashes flutter, dark and furious against exhaustion-pale skin. Daesung circles the dragonball on his shoulder before dragging further down, sliding his thumb across Jiyong’s nipple. Jiyong is too sleepy to fight the shudder that snakes down his spine at Daesung’s touch.
Jiyong exhales deeply, as if he’s dreaming, when Daesung’s hand slides flat along his abdomen. Jiyong is stronger than usual, now, because of his solo promotions.
“I’m so tired,” Jiyong rasps, as Daesung slips a hand down his briefs, wrapping a hand around his cock. “And frustrated. And angry.”
“It’s okay,” Daesung says, as Jiyong bites his lip as if to hold back the words. “Tell me.” He runs a thumb over the tip, and Jiyong hisses and pushes his hips up, canting into Daesung’s loose grip.
“I don’t like writing songs for other people. I’m selfish. I want to sing all of my songs.” His eyes are still closed, and his words are still slurred with sleep.
He’s not saying anything Daesung doesn’t already know. Daesung is not Jiyong’s confessional, and Jiyong doesn’t believe he has anything to confess, anyway. This is just Jiyong without pretence, sleepy and ragged and hot beneath Daesung’s fingers.
Jiyong likes being needed but hates to need; Daesung, though, is a maknae that is more like a hyung, and when Jiyong is like this, Daesung accepts him just as easily as he does when Jiyong is abrasive, or when Jiyong is playing games.
Daesung thinks that’s why he’s so often Jiyong’s favorite, lately. Because he’s never put Jiyong on a pedestal, and he’s never been in love with him; not like Seungri, who looks at Jiyong with eyes big, waiting for the crumbs of affection Jiyong will give him if he feels like it.
He moves his hand faster along Jiyong’s shaft, and Jiyong grunts at the roughness of Daesung’s hands—calluses from lifting, from hours in the gym trying to think about everything but his life. Jiyong’s own hands subconsciously come up to touch the scars on Daesung’s arms, and Daesung shivers because that’s the most intimate touch he allows.
When Daesung is troubled, he has God. When Jiyong is troubled, Daesung tries to be there, as best as anyone can be for a man who refuses to trust. Daesung thinks Jiyong lets him this close because Daesung doesn’t trust people either.
If not a confidant, perhaps a kindred spirit.
Jiyong is close, breathing harsh and stuttered, and though his muscles are lazy with sleep, his abs are tight. There’s a thin sheen of sweat.
“I hate when people expect me to make the same thing all the time. I hate that anyone thinks they own me. Think they can slap ratings on things that will keep people from listening.” Negative reviews. ‘Not as good as ‘Heartbreaker’.
When Jiyong comes, his face isn’t pretty. It’s twisted up with frustration and fury and something else, too, that Daesung’s never been able to pinpoint. But after, his face smoothes, and finally, Daesung thinks, he looks like the Jiyong with a young face and old soul that had found Daesung when he was drowning and offered his own sort of lifeline.
(Jiyong has always told Daesung he’s too soft, but when they write ‘Wings’, Daesung gets the impression that Jiyong likes that Daesung is soft, and maybe just hates that Daesung had built a shell around that softness that makes him immune to Jiyong’s games.)
“Sleep,” Daesung says, as he wipes his hand clean with tissues from the nightstand. He drops them into the trash, and stands, as Jiyong rolls onto his side and away from Daesung.
“I’ll only sleep if you sleep with me, though,” Jiyong says. It would sound more like a threat if Jiyong weren’t barely clinging to consciousness. Daesung can see all of Jiyong’s pieces, now, strewn out across the covers because he hasn’t the energy to hold them together into a semblance of a man.
Daesung smiles, because Jiyong manipulates like it’s second nature, but Daesung has never minded. “Sure,” he says, and lies down next to Jiyong on the wide hotel bed, and lets Jiyong think he’s winning.
Pairing: Daesung/Jiyong…ish
Rating: R
Summary: Jiyong likes being needed but hates to need. (2k)
Notes: for sleepy/unconscious on k_b
Notes ii: I’m playing with this bc my GRi wip is getting heavy and I needed a break.
Jiyong stays up for days and days, scribbling into notebooks and yelling ideas into the recording program on his mobile phone and swearing under his breath. He curls his fingers too tight around his pens, sometimes snapping them in his thick, strong fingers until there’s ink welling in the webbed skin between them. As time bears onward, he hunkers more and more into himself, moving from the desk to the cold floor, and he switches from his notebook to his fancy customized tablet as he fiddles with music programs and tries not to let his hands shake from a combination of caffeine and nicotine withdraw.
Sometimes Daesung watches him and wonders if he’s falling apart. Daesung knows a thing or two about what that’s like; numb hands peeling themselves off the steering wheel and legs stumbling out of the car before his brain can catch up.
Unlike Daesung, though, Jiyong falls apart slowly; pulling himself into pieces, and he doesn’t have anchors to hold onto like Daesung does. Daesung has his faith, and his family. Jiyong has nothing and no one, because he doesn’t believe in anything and he never lets anyone close.
(Everyone but Daesung has tried to be Kwon Jiyong’s confidant, but Daesung watches Jiyong carefully; has watched him carefully for years, and he knows better. Kwon Jiyong will never have a confidant because he doesn’t want anyone to have that kind of power over him.)
Jiyong’s hair, now, is the blue and pink of carnival cotton candy, and by what Daesung, from years of experience, estimates is the sixth day of staying awake, the skin beneath Jiyong’s eyes is a complementary purple.
Daesung’s not sure if it’s self-punishment, stubbornness, or arrogance that keeps Jiyong awake. Jiyong’s a combination of those, so maybe it’s all three.
“We’ve got a show tomorrow,” Daesung says quietly, wondering if it’s all right to rest his hands on Jiyong’s shoulders. Jiyong barely spares him a glance, so he does. His shoulders are tight under Daesung’s hands, but he doesn’t pull away. Daesung figures it must be his turn as Jiyong’s favorite, again. He’d thought it was Youngbae’s.
“Don’t you think I know that?” His voice is raspy, an empty echo. Cigarettes are destroying the tone. Daesung doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t approve of singers who smoke. “Stop worrying about my voice.”
Daesung would say “I’m not,” only he doesn’t lie, and he’s not about to start with Jiyong, who sees through lies almost as easily as he tells them.
“You’ve just put out a mini-album,” Daesung says instead. “And we’ll be on tour until next year.” Daesung’s arms hurt. He’s just finished at the gym, and he should go home and shower. But the light had been on, when he’d walked by the studio Jiyong always commandeers, and he’d ignored the sweat slowly drying on his skin, pulling it tight, to look in on him. “You don’t need to push yourself here.” There are other places for Jiyong to run himself ragged. Daesung knows better than to tell him to take care of himself.
“There’s a new boy group,” Jiyong says. His lips are white like chalk, skin cracked. Daesung wonders about the last time Jiyong ate. Knowing Jiyong, it’s been as long as it has been since Jiyong’s left this room. Maybe twenty hours. Maybe longer. Jiyong’s wearing rehearsal clothes. He’d probably come here after they’d ran through the choreo for Majimak Insang yesterday. They’re flying out in eleven hours for Los Angeles.
“They’re not a threat,” Daesung says, unassuming because he knows Jiyong likes that. Jiyong has always liked how quiet Daesung is. Daesung likes that Jiyong doesn’t demand anything from Daesung but the calm that comes naturally.
“Obviously,” Jiyong says. “I’m writing songs for them. A couple. Only these are all too personal to give them.” He’s got ink along his knuckles as he taps aimless patterns against his knees. His hair is greasy.
“All your songs are too personal,” Daesung says. “Do you want me to bring you food?” He squeezes Jiyong’s shoulders, and Jiyong looks up at him, catching his gaze.
They stare, for a moment, as Jiyong considers whether he’s going to snap or not. But this is Daesung, and Jiyong’s always used a softer voice with Daesung. Youngbae has a joke that he and Jiyong are the carrot and the stick, but that’s never applied with Daesung. Daesung always gets the velvet glove over the iron fist.
“I don’t need food,” Jiyong replies. “I need more time. More hours in a day.”
“I think you’ve made as many as you could.” Daesung’s hair is sticking to the back of his neck. He should shower. He worries a lot about his skin.
“Never enough,” Jiyong says, and he turns back to his tablet. The corners of his lips are turning down in frustration.
“I’m leaving,” Daesung says, and Jiyong furrows his brow. He shrugs, like he doesn’t care whether Daesung stays or goes, but there’s disappointment in the forward curve of his neck. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. With food.”
Jiyong had brought Daesung food, back then. Back when Daesung had found it hard to call up his appetite. He’d sat across from Daesung, in Daesung’s desk chair, and watched him until he’d taken every bite. Daesung had tried to thank him and Jiyong had shrugged like it was nothing, but Jiyong is always like that. Daesung had taken Jiyong to church with him, after that, and Jiyong’d shifted uncomfortably in the pews as Daesung had whispered prayers under his breath.
Daesung can’t figure out if Jiyong doesn’t believe in God, or if he thinks he is God, and either way, it makes it harder, sometimes, for Daesung to know if it’s okay to hold Jiyong’s hand. (Daesung had slid hesitant fingers across the gold embossing on the copy of ‘One of a Kind’ that Jiyong had handed him and wondered if Jiyong was trying to reinforce the idea of his own religion.)
“Fine,” Jiyong says, and Daesung can see Jiyong’s mind leaving their conversation, his eyes turning glinting and fractured like a broken window, and Daesung steps back, away. “I’ll only eat it if you stay and eat it with me, though.”
Daesung smiles, because Jiyong manipulates like it’s second nature, but Daesung has never minded. “Sure,” he says, and he retreats as quietly as he entered, leaving the parts of Jiyong that are left to curl back into creativity. “Be back later,” he says, but he’s not sure Jiyong hears him.
*
When Jiyong finally sleeps, he is impossible to rouse. After a solid twelve hours where he’s dead to the world, he exists in a transitory state, half asleep and half awake, lucid enough to be demanding and sleepy enough that he doesn’t couch it backhanded compliments.
After they perform in LA, Jiyong goes to bed. Daesung doesn’t bother to check on him for a solid day, letting him sink into his hotel bed as Daesung and Seunghyun explore the city, as Youngbae calls his new girlfriend back in Seoul, and Seungri sneaks off to get in trouble, like he’d done in Vegas, coming back with hickeys in obvious places and two buttons missing from his dress shirt.
When they get back, though, that’s when Daesung slips into Jiyong’s hotel room to make sure he’s alive. He sits down next to him on the bed and stares, a bit, before he moves close enough to hear Jiyong’s rasping breaths.
Jiyong likes being needed but hates to need, and that’s what makes him so hard to get close to. When he’s tired, though, Jiyong lets Daesung push his hair back from his forehead and run fingers across the lines of his face. There are crowsfeet at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t look twenty four in sleep. He looks older.
“What?” Jiyong mumbles, and Daesung laughs as Jiyong tries to pull himself more awake. He fails, and his eyes fall closed again.
Daesung likes Jiyong like this. When Jiyong forgets that he doesn’t trust anyone very far, and that he should be making more use out of these empty hours than he is.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat as he dips his fingers into Jiyong’s collarbones, and Jiyong’s eyelashes flutter, dark and furious against exhaustion-pale skin. Daesung circles the dragonball on his shoulder before dragging further down, sliding his thumb across Jiyong’s nipple. Jiyong is too sleepy to fight the shudder that snakes down his spine at Daesung’s touch.
Jiyong exhales deeply, as if he’s dreaming, when Daesung’s hand slides flat along his abdomen. Jiyong is stronger than usual, now, because of his solo promotions.
“I’m so tired,” Jiyong rasps, as Daesung slips a hand down his briefs, wrapping a hand around his cock. “And frustrated. And angry.”
“It’s okay,” Daesung says, as Jiyong bites his lip as if to hold back the words. “Tell me.” He runs a thumb over the tip, and Jiyong hisses and pushes his hips up, canting into Daesung’s loose grip.
“I don’t like writing songs for other people. I’m selfish. I want to sing all of my songs.” His eyes are still closed, and his words are still slurred with sleep.
He’s not saying anything Daesung doesn’t already know. Daesung is not Jiyong’s confessional, and Jiyong doesn’t believe he has anything to confess, anyway. This is just Jiyong without pretence, sleepy and ragged and hot beneath Daesung’s fingers.
Jiyong likes being needed but hates to need; Daesung, though, is a maknae that is more like a hyung, and when Jiyong is like this, Daesung accepts him just as easily as he does when Jiyong is abrasive, or when Jiyong is playing games.
Daesung thinks that’s why he’s so often Jiyong’s favorite, lately. Because he’s never put Jiyong on a pedestal, and he’s never been in love with him; not like Seungri, who looks at Jiyong with eyes big, waiting for the crumbs of affection Jiyong will give him if he feels like it.
He moves his hand faster along Jiyong’s shaft, and Jiyong grunts at the roughness of Daesung’s hands—calluses from lifting, from hours in the gym trying to think about everything but his life. Jiyong’s own hands subconsciously come up to touch the scars on Daesung’s arms, and Daesung shivers because that’s the most intimate touch he allows.
When Daesung is troubled, he has God. When Jiyong is troubled, Daesung tries to be there, as best as anyone can be for a man who refuses to trust. Daesung thinks Jiyong lets him this close because Daesung doesn’t trust people either.
If not a confidant, perhaps a kindred spirit.
Jiyong is close, breathing harsh and stuttered, and though his muscles are lazy with sleep, his abs are tight. There’s a thin sheen of sweat.
“I hate when people expect me to make the same thing all the time. I hate that anyone thinks they own me. Think they can slap ratings on things that will keep people from listening.” Negative reviews. ‘Not as good as ‘Heartbreaker’.
When Jiyong comes, his face isn’t pretty. It’s twisted up with frustration and fury and something else, too, that Daesung’s never been able to pinpoint. But after, his face smoothes, and finally, Daesung thinks, he looks like the Jiyong with a young face and old soul that had found Daesung when he was drowning and offered his own sort of lifeline.
(Jiyong has always told Daesung he’s too soft, but when they write ‘Wings’, Daesung gets the impression that Jiyong likes that Daesung is soft, and maybe just hates that Daesung had built a shell around that softness that makes him immune to Jiyong’s games.)
“Sleep,” Daesung says, as he wipes his hand clean with tissues from the nightstand. He drops them into the trash, and stands, as Jiyong rolls onto his side and away from Daesung.
“I’ll only sleep if you sleep with me, though,” Jiyong says. It would sound more like a threat if Jiyong weren’t barely clinging to consciousness. Daesung can see all of Jiyong’s pieces, now, strewn out across the covers because he hasn’t the energy to hold them together into a semblance of a man.
Daesung smiles, because Jiyong manipulates like it’s second nature, but Daesung has never minded. “Sure,” he says, and lies down next to Jiyong on the wide hotel bed, and lets Jiyong think he’s winning.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-10-30 08:21 pm (UTC)" Daesung thinks that’s why he’s so often Jiyong’s favorite, lately. Because he’s never put Jiyong on a pedestal, and he’s never been in love with him; not like Seungri, who looks at Jiyong with eyes big, waiting for the crumbs of affection Jiyong will give him if he feels like it."
Dang u read my mind omg u mystical woman
no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 03:57 am (UTC)