(no subject)
paralysis
g-dragon/mizuhara kiko, g-dragon/top, pg, 1190ⓦ
Love is neon-coloured, Jiyong said once, waving his hand so that the bracelets on his skinny wrist jangled. Love, for Jiyong, is bright like fireworks, with that same electric fervour with which he does everything. When Jiyong is in love, he is alive with it: he throws himself into life and demands everything from it, a melody perpetually on the tip of his tongue, a beat at his fingertips. Not everything about Jiyong could be bought, but everything about him could be sold: the birth of an artist, brilliant and half-mad, unraveling at people's feet. He's Peter Pan, young and invincible and haunted by shadows, and it makes him unpredictable, intriguing.
Jiyong is being difficult, today. He's having a fight with Kiko, Seunghyun can tell, because Jiyong is moody and irritable - more so than usual - and looks at his phone without touching it, toying restlessly with his rings or clinging to Seungri, oscillating between sullenness and derisive snorts that Seungri gently teases out of him with practised ease, brimming with jokes and lightly mocking impersonations and funny stories for Jiyong's approval. Jiyong lives almost entirely in the spotlight, but such straight lines never exist in nature, and here, today, he's entirely Kwon Jiyong. It's hard to hold him by the edges when even the edges are sharp, and at his most vicious, Jiyong likes to make people bleed.
Kiko is beautiful, the kind of girl you'd want to buy diamonds for. He'd seen her a few times, in the passenger seat of Jiyong's car with white 50s sunglasses, young and free-spirited; in clubs, the slight pout of her mouth nestled against the rim of a glass or Jiyong's neck while Jiyong glanced his way and smiled. When they were in Tokyo, she'd taken Jiyong to an Andy Warhol tribute exhibition, to Orange Street in Osaka and to the Mosaic ferris wheel in Kobe. Sometimes Seunghyun would lean over his shoulder and see a cellphone camera snapshot of contact sheets for her latest photoshoot, or the PV for a Japanese song from the 70s. "Kiko sent it to me," he would mumble, and they would laugh at the bad CG and dancing. She had what magazines called a "natural Garçonne aesthetic," and it fascinated Jiyong; he could pick out all the little things Jiyong liked about her, the baby hair at the nape of her neck, the curve of her smile hidden behind the fan of her hair, the clumsiness of her mouth when he taught her words in Korean.
Likes, he reminds himself, present tense. Truthfully, Kiko is a better fit for Jiyong than a lot of the other girls he's dated. She's a little obstinate and selfish, like Jiyong, and even though it makes them fight, it keeps him in check, and he's happy. Still, Seunghyun doesn't think he'll miss her, if she goes.
They run in tangential circles, on the covers of magazines at different times, different countries. Jiyong loses his appetite for two weeks after Daul's suicide, and Kiko had only ever seen her in editorials. She's hardly ever in Korea for work, now filming for a new movie, and with Jiyong working on Big Bang's comeback, it's difficult. Jiyong hates being alone when he doesn't want to be, always visiting the 2NE1 girls or Seungho's studio, and walking Gaho with Youngbae and Boss.
Jiyong doesn't like to hide, either; Seunghyun and Daesung and Youngbae and even Seungri will go out with disguises and eyes cast low, hoods pulled over their heads, but Jiyong is always recognisable, by his voice or skinny, lithe frame, or his conspicuous brick-patterned Ashish jacket, studded Balmain boots. Seunghyun's never been able to tell if it's entirely on purpose - the shock of dyed hair peeking out from under a hat, the only man on the street wearing a Hermès scarf around his neck.
There's a certain defiance in the way he holds her hand, because Kiko's meant to be something of a sunflower, a charming young girl becoming a lady, and Jiyong's a good leader, but he's never been a role model, scuffing his kicks in the back alley of clubs, littered with his cigarette stubs - "They told me you weren't good for me," Kiko had written to him, they being her management. "But I think I like you better for it."
Seungri slides out of Jiyong's embrace, looking apologetic as he's called away, leaving Jiyong limp in his seat. Youngbae's talking to Teddy still, and Jiyong sighs. Still flicking absently through songs on his iPod, Seunghyun slides down in his seat just enough to bump knees. Jiyong hooks his chin over Seunghyun's elbow, so Seunghyun tugs an earphone out of his ear and fits it into Jiyong's, gently.
Jiyong's fingers touch his when he takes the iPod, skimming through the playlist without comment before he skips to a song halfway down the list. Sounds good! the album art blares, in bright red. Jiyong closes his eyes and tilts his head, and with his hair cut short, Seunghyun can see the soft skin behind the delicate curve of Jiyong's ear, pale and demanding a kiss.
Jiyong, Seunghyun thinks, has always been greedy.
It's almost his birthday. Today his body is tense and sleepless, frenetic like a wind-up doll, G-Dragon, rattling about the set on unsteady legs. When they pause filming, an open tube of lipstick repainting the corner of his mouth in rough, clinging strokes, he closes his eyes, fingers drumming on a knee he has to concentrate to hold still.
There's a threshold none of them would cross, a divide between here, where Jiyong is, and there, where the staff and his small, faithful audience are amassed, watching and waiting. With his eyes closed, he can still remember with startling clarity the sight of Seunghyun sitting with his legs crossed, perfectly still, watching him. Seunghyun, who doesn't understand how soft his eyes can be, childlike and clumsy in his own body despite memorising his best angles, the alluring set of his jaw. He wants to reach out, pull Seunghyun in, crush the breath out of his chest under that familiar, warm weight.
In the silence of intermission, his song still thrums in his heart, every carefully crafted second of sound, the story of a man in a relationship who goes to sleep and falls in love with a person in his dreams, about forgetting to live, about night and day, falsehood and lies. The set is elaborate, full of trapdoors for him to step through, the lines between reality and the dream blurred even now, as the stylist steps away from him with a last brush of powder across his cheekbones.
The speakers come to life again in the middle of the chorus, I know a reality exists outside of you / but even if I can I don't want to see it. "Ready?" the director says, through the megaphone, and Jiyong takes a deep breath and nods, eyes still closed - but because outside the world keeps spinning madly round / I hold on.
He's scared to open his eyes and have the only thing he sees be Seunghyun, an incontrovertible truth.
g-dragon/mizuhara kiko, g-dragon/top, pg, 1190ⓦ
Love is neon-coloured, Jiyong said once, waving his hand so that the bracelets on his skinny wrist jangled. Love, for Jiyong, is bright like fireworks, with that same electric fervour with which he does everything. When Jiyong is in love, he is alive with it: he throws himself into life and demands everything from it, a melody perpetually on the tip of his tongue, a beat at his fingertips. Not everything about Jiyong could be bought, but everything about him could be sold: the birth of an artist, brilliant and half-mad, unraveling at people's feet. He's Peter Pan, young and invincible and haunted by shadows, and it makes him unpredictable, intriguing.
Jiyong is being difficult, today. He's having a fight with Kiko, Seunghyun can tell, because Jiyong is moody and irritable - more so than usual - and looks at his phone without touching it, toying restlessly with his rings or clinging to Seungri, oscillating between sullenness and derisive snorts that Seungri gently teases out of him with practised ease, brimming with jokes and lightly mocking impersonations and funny stories for Jiyong's approval. Jiyong lives almost entirely in the spotlight, but such straight lines never exist in nature, and here, today, he's entirely Kwon Jiyong. It's hard to hold him by the edges when even the edges are sharp, and at his most vicious, Jiyong likes to make people bleed.
Kiko is beautiful, the kind of girl you'd want to buy diamonds for. He'd seen her a few times, in the passenger seat of Jiyong's car with white 50s sunglasses, young and free-spirited; in clubs, the slight pout of her mouth nestled against the rim of a glass or Jiyong's neck while Jiyong glanced his way and smiled. When they were in Tokyo, she'd taken Jiyong to an Andy Warhol tribute exhibition, to Orange Street in Osaka and to the Mosaic ferris wheel in Kobe. Sometimes Seunghyun would lean over his shoulder and see a cellphone camera snapshot of contact sheets for her latest photoshoot, or the PV for a Japanese song from the 70s. "Kiko sent it to me," he would mumble, and they would laugh at the bad CG and dancing. She had what magazines called a "natural Garçonne aesthetic," and it fascinated Jiyong; he could pick out all the little things Jiyong liked about her, the baby hair at the nape of her neck, the curve of her smile hidden behind the fan of her hair, the clumsiness of her mouth when he taught her words in Korean.
Likes, he reminds himself, present tense. Truthfully, Kiko is a better fit for Jiyong than a lot of the other girls he's dated. She's a little obstinate and selfish, like Jiyong, and even though it makes them fight, it keeps him in check, and he's happy. Still, Seunghyun doesn't think he'll miss her, if she goes.
They run in tangential circles, on the covers of magazines at different times, different countries. Jiyong loses his appetite for two weeks after Daul's suicide, and Kiko had only ever seen her in editorials. She's hardly ever in Korea for work, now filming for a new movie, and with Jiyong working on Big Bang's comeback, it's difficult. Jiyong hates being alone when he doesn't want to be, always visiting the 2NE1 girls or Seungho's studio, and walking Gaho with Youngbae and Boss.
Jiyong doesn't like to hide, either; Seunghyun and Daesung and Youngbae and even Seungri will go out with disguises and eyes cast low, hoods pulled over their heads, but Jiyong is always recognisable, by his voice or skinny, lithe frame, or his conspicuous brick-patterned Ashish jacket, studded Balmain boots. Seunghyun's never been able to tell if it's entirely on purpose - the shock of dyed hair peeking out from under a hat, the only man on the street wearing a Hermès scarf around his neck.
There's a certain defiance in the way he holds her hand, because Kiko's meant to be something of a sunflower, a charming young girl becoming a lady, and Jiyong's a good leader, but he's never been a role model, scuffing his kicks in the back alley of clubs, littered with his cigarette stubs - "They told me you weren't good for me," Kiko had written to him, they being her management. "But I think I like you better for it."
Seungri slides out of Jiyong's embrace, looking apologetic as he's called away, leaving Jiyong limp in his seat. Youngbae's talking to Teddy still, and Jiyong sighs. Still flicking absently through songs on his iPod, Seunghyun slides down in his seat just enough to bump knees. Jiyong hooks his chin over Seunghyun's elbow, so Seunghyun tugs an earphone out of his ear and fits it into Jiyong's, gently.
Jiyong's fingers touch his when he takes the iPod, skimming through the playlist without comment before he skips to a song halfway down the list. Sounds good! the album art blares, in bright red. Jiyong closes his eyes and tilts his head, and with his hair cut short, Seunghyun can see the soft skin behind the delicate curve of Jiyong's ear, pale and demanding a kiss.
Jiyong, Seunghyun thinks, has always been greedy.
It's almost his birthday. Today his body is tense and sleepless, frenetic like a wind-up doll, G-Dragon, rattling about the set on unsteady legs. When they pause filming, an open tube of lipstick repainting the corner of his mouth in rough, clinging strokes, he closes his eyes, fingers drumming on a knee he has to concentrate to hold still.
There's a threshold none of them would cross, a divide between here, where Jiyong is, and there, where the staff and his small, faithful audience are amassed, watching and waiting. With his eyes closed, he can still remember with startling clarity the sight of Seunghyun sitting with his legs crossed, perfectly still, watching him. Seunghyun, who doesn't understand how soft his eyes can be, childlike and clumsy in his own body despite memorising his best angles, the alluring set of his jaw. He wants to reach out, pull Seunghyun in, crush the breath out of his chest under that familiar, warm weight.
In the silence of intermission, his song still thrums in his heart, every carefully crafted second of sound, the story of a man in a relationship who goes to sleep and falls in love with a person in his dreams, about forgetting to live, about night and day, falsehood and lies. The set is elaborate, full of trapdoors for him to step through, the lines between reality and the dream blurred even now, as the stylist steps away from him with a last brush of powder across his cheekbones.
The speakers come to life again in the middle of the chorus, I know a reality exists outside of you / but even if I can I don't want to see it. "Ready?" the director says, through the megaphone, and Jiyong takes a deep breath and nods, eyes still closed - but because outside the world keeps spinning madly round / I hold on.
He's scared to open his eyes and have the only thing he sees be Seunghyun, an incontrovertible truth.