[drabble]
inspired by chanrae's rant; written at work; may expand later
He narrows his eyes as he peers through the crack he's created in the blinds with his fingers. Squinting against the sunlight he can see the three younger ones sans Seungri frolicking in the pool, yelling like kids and trying to drown each other. Raising his line of sight a little causes him to purse his mouth sourly.
It's all the same, whichever country they visit, he thinks. Other people travel to see the sights, take in the attractions, the food and the culture. But all he ever gets to see is the sea of rabid fangirls screaming the same in a hundred different languages, and his own. He'd like to feel comforted that they speak his language, but all they ever seem to really know is his name and saranghaeyo. He takes a puff of the cigarette in his other hand, flicks the ash off and turns from the window feeling sick, so sick.
He'd thought that after he was fitter, toned and sculpted, he'd be able to join them at the pools, the spas, wherever. But more than ever the attention shriveled him. It was an entirely different kind of inferiority complex from before. He didn't want to live with his naked self staring back at him from the newsstands, the internet, the gossip rags. The comparison pictures on the American tabloids chilled him - if they could do it to Britney Spears, they could do it to him. He didn't want to grow into his thirties facing 'what happened' questions about his physique, even if he'd become one handsome motherfucker. What if he wasn't?
He narrows his eyes as he peers through the crack he's created in the blinds with his fingers. Squinting against the sunlight he can see the three younger ones sans Seungri frolicking in the pool, yelling like kids and trying to drown each other. Raising his line of sight a little causes him to purse his mouth sourly.
It's all the same, whichever country they visit, he thinks. Other people travel to see the sights, take in the attractions, the food and the culture. But all he ever gets to see is the sea of rabid fangirls screaming the same in a hundred different languages, and his own. He'd like to feel comforted that they speak his language, but all they ever seem to really know is his name and saranghaeyo. He takes a puff of the cigarette in his other hand, flicks the ash off and turns from the window feeling sick, so sick.
He'd thought that after he was fitter, toned and sculpted, he'd be able to join them at the pools, the spas, wherever. But more than ever the attention shriveled him. It was an entirely different kind of inferiority complex from before. He didn't want to live with his naked self staring back at him from the newsstands, the internet, the gossip rags. The comparison pictures on the American tabloids chilled him - if they could do it to Britney Spears, they could do it to him. He didn't want to grow into his thirties facing 'what happened' questions about his physique, even if he'd become one handsome motherfucker. What if he wasn't?