(no subject)
the wanting comes in waves
g-dragon/seungri, pg, 1020ⓦ
Note: Remix of corpuscallos_m's Classified for kpop_ficmix ( original post).
Seungri builds while Jiyong pillows his head in the crook of his arm next to him, lazily re-crossing out rhymes in a poor semblance of work. It’s cold, raindrops clinging to the window and blurring the moonlight, the wet glitter of Tokyo at night below them. The slow hum of the radiator layered over the soft rasp of rain makes Seungri feel drowsy, lethargic. Jiyong is quiet, but in the dim light Seungri can still feel his gaze, heavy and unsettling on Seungri’s skin, and Seungri’s breath shivers through his body.
"Maknae," Jiyong says, finally, voice a little hoarse on the vowels, and Seungri tries not to jump at the sound, tries not to feel sixteen again when he looks up at Jiyong. And Jiyong is very nearly ugly, unshaven and hair tousled, dressed in a plain white shirt that emphasises the flatness of his chest, the uncomfortable boniness of his elbows. The points of his face are unattractive, gaunt shadows elongating his features, too-long grey sweatpants dragging on his heels.
His mouth is dry. Jiyong's fingers are curled around Seungri's sleeve, demanding and a little petulant, so Seungri lets Jiyong drag him under the blankets with cold, wiry fingers, aligning sharp knees and skinny hips to Seungri's. "Good night," he mumbles, face buried into Seungri's shoulder, and Seungri's heartbeat works in frantic double-time to Jiyong's even breathing.
He tells himself he doesn't like it.
Seungri snaps two grey Lego pieces together, clinical under the heat of his desk lamp, as Jiyong stirs. "What are you making?" Jiyong mumbles sleepily, voice stifled by the creamy angora wool of his sweater, riding up his stomach.
Seungri makes the mistake of looking back. It paralyses him like a sting, the hurt so unexpected that for a moment he's almost dizzy with it, overwhelmed, Prometheus chained for stealing what wasn't his, to keep or behold. He turns back around quickly, fingers clumsy on the pieces scattered on the table.
"Armour," Seungri replies, a beat too late. The piece in his hand is the wrong colour, and he lets it drop with a clack. Behind him, he hears Jiyong get up, leaving the blankets shed like entrails, a scythe-like swath in the sheets.
"Don't do that," Jiyong says, close to his ear, and there it is, aperture winding down, until all Seungri can see and hear and breathe is Jiyong.
It doesn't matter, because Jiyong had slipped through Seungri's defences years ago, without so much as a smile or a second glance. None of the fondness, none of the touches that stutter across his skin, pregnant with meaning, but only for Seungri. It's not that I like Seungri, but that Seungri likes me. At the time Jiyong was only interested in the future, and Seungri was always running one step behind - out of sight, out of mind. But even then, Jiyong was Jiyong, magnetic and alluring, and even if Jiyong was nobody, or at least not yet G-Dragon, Seungri was starstruck.
They streak bright blue paint across Jiyong's mouth, his eyes smudged with kohl and cheekbones lined with gold and bronze. Look dazed, the director says, but Jiyong looks lost, beautiful and barely there. It scares Seungri a little, but when it's over, Jiyong just holds a tissue to his mouth, the neon blue like blood, and laughs.
A few hours later Jiyong's sitting on a table in the recording studio, tapping the bill of his cap with a pen, same as always. "Again," Jiyong repeats, and Seungri adjusts the headphones, nodding. He twists a finger in the fabric of his shirt, waiting for his cue, and Jiyong clears his throat, clicking the mouse next to him. "Stop ruining my shirt," he says absently, and Seungri blinks, startled just as the music crashes into life in his ears.
He’s a beat off, and Jiyong stops him. "Again," Jiyong says, unperturbed, but when Seungri says, yes, hyung, quietly, Jiyong smiles, a sliver of hope so small that Seungri can only subsist on it, helplessly.
In the beginning, he'd built aimless towers, up and up and up, until they had come crashing down, by accident or by necessity, Seungri packing up his belongings in a carry-on and two check-ins. The deconstruction was as natural as anything else, the flash of a reporter’s camera in his face and the sensation of pressure, building up in his ears as the city grows small under him. How every night he would pull the sheets straight and unfurl the duvet so that it lay flat again, erasing Jiyong's presence from spaces long gone cold.
"Build me a spaceship," Jiyong says, in New York, when he's tangled up in bed with Seungri next to him. Outside, the city trembles under them, the sounds of construction and rush hour traffic muted, the thrum of the B train and its passengers below ground inaudible. Jiyong’s fingers are curled loosely around Seungri's wrist to keep him close. There's ink smudged on Jiyong's fingers, coming off on Seungri's wrist, the dark blue like bruises blossoming under the vice of Jiyong's hold.
"Hyung can't leave," Seungri says, a little too quickly, and hates that he sounds so small. He feels exposed, on his back so that all he sees is Jiyong against the backdrop of a white wide ceiling. It's a relief when Jiyong shakes his head, ducking down so that Seungri's gaze is drawn to the dip of his back, the point of his shoulders a sharply angled peak. His profile catches the light of late afternoon, golden and brilliant, the long line of his nose and the bow of his lips familiar and untouchable.
"Because when I look at you I can hear music," Jiyong whispers, and Seungri thinks about the swell of sound in an orchestra, the clean lines of dancers in motion, and the quick ink of Jiyong's pen on paper, verses and codas coming to life. In the bathroom, he looks at himself in the mirror clouded with the steam from his shower, and thinks, in the dead silence, that Jiyong is a liar.
g-dragon/seungri, pg, 1020ⓦ
Note: Remix of corpuscallos_m's Classified for kpop_ficmix ( original post).
Seungri builds while Jiyong pillows his head in the crook of his arm next to him, lazily re-crossing out rhymes in a poor semblance of work. It’s cold, raindrops clinging to the window and blurring the moonlight, the wet glitter of Tokyo at night below them. The slow hum of the radiator layered over the soft rasp of rain makes Seungri feel drowsy, lethargic. Jiyong is quiet, but in the dim light Seungri can still feel his gaze, heavy and unsettling on Seungri’s skin, and Seungri’s breath shivers through his body.
"Maknae," Jiyong says, finally, voice a little hoarse on the vowels, and Seungri tries not to jump at the sound, tries not to feel sixteen again when he looks up at Jiyong. And Jiyong is very nearly ugly, unshaven and hair tousled, dressed in a plain white shirt that emphasises the flatness of his chest, the uncomfortable boniness of his elbows. The points of his face are unattractive, gaunt shadows elongating his features, too-long grey sweatpants dragging on his heels.
His mouth is dry. Jiyong's fingers are curled around Seungri's sleeve, demanding and a little petulant, so Seungri lets Jiyong drag him under the blankets with cold, wiry fingers, aligning sharp knees and skinny hips to Seungri's. "Good night," he mumbles, face buried into Seungri's shoulder, and Seungri's heartbeat works in frantic double-time to Jiyong's even breathing.
He tells himself he doesn't like it.
Seungri snaps two grey Lego pieces together, clinical under the heat of his desk lamp, as Jiyong stirs. "What are you making?" Jiyong mumbles sleepily, voice stifled by the creamy angora wool of his sweater, riding up his stomach.
Seungri makes the mistake of looking back. It paralyses him like a sting, the hurt so unexpected that for a moment he's almost dizzy with it, overwhelmed, Prometheus chained for stealing what wasn't his, to keep or behold. He turns back around quickly, fingers clumsy on the pieces scattered on the table.
"Armour," Seungri replies, a beat too late. The piece in his hand is the wrong colour, and he lets it drop with a clack. Behind him, he hears Jiyong get up, leaving the blankets shed like entrails, a scythe-like swath in the sheets.
"Don't do that," Jiyong says, close to his ear, and there it is, aperture winding down, until all Seungri can see and hear and breathe is Jiyong.
It doesn't matter, because Jiyong had slipped through Seungri's defences years ago, without so much as a smile or a second glance. None of the fondness, none of the touches that stutter across his skin, pregnant with meaning, but only for Seungri. It's not that I like Seungri, but that Seungri likes me. At the time Jiyong was only interested in the future, and Seungri was always running one step behind - out of sight, out of mind. But even then, Jiyong was Jiyong, magnetic and alluring, and even if Jiyong was nobody, or at least not yet G-Dragon, Seungri was starstruck.
They streak bright blue paint across Jiyong's mouth, his eyes smudged with kohl and cheekbones lined with gold and bronze. Look dazed, the director says, but Jiyong looks lost, beautiful and barely there. It scares Seungri a little, but when it's over, Jiyong just holds a tissue to his mouth, the neon blue like blood, and laughs.
A few hours later Jiyong's sitting on a table in the recording studio, tapping the bill of his cap with a pen, same as always. "Again," Jiyong repeats, and Seungri adjusts the headphones, nodding. He twists a finger in the fabric of his shirt, waiting for his cue, and Jiyong clears his throat, clicking the mouse next to him. "Stop ruining my shirt," he says absently, and Seungri blinks, startled just as the music crashes into life in his ears.
He’s a beat off, and Jiyong stops him. "Again," Jiyong says, unperturbed, but when Seungri says, yes, hyung, quietly, Jiyong smiles, a sliver of hope so small that Seungri can only subsist on it, helplessly.
In the beginning, he'd built aimless towers, up and up and up, until they had come crashing down, by accident or by necessity, Seungri packing up his belongings in a carry-on and two check-ins. The deconstruction was as natural as anything else, the flash of a reporter’s camera in his face and the sensation of pressure, building up in his ears as the city grows small under him. How every night he would pull the sheets straight and unfurl the duvet so that it lay flat again, erasing Jiyong's presence from spaces long gone cold.
"Build me a spaceship," Jiyong says, in New York, when he's tangled up in bed with Seungri next to him. Outside, the city trembles under them, the sounds of construction and rush hour traffic muted, the thrum of the B train and its passengers below ground inaudible. Jiyong’s fingers are curled loosely around Seungri's wrist to keep him close. There's ink smudged on Jiyong's fingers, coming off on Seungri's wrist, the dark blue like bruises blossoming under the vice of Jiyong's hold.
"Hyung can't leave," Seungri says, a little too quickly, and hates that he sounds so small. He feels exposed, on his back so that all he sees is Jiyong against the backdrop of a white wide ceiling. It's a relief when Jiyong shakes his head, ducking down so that Seungri's gaze is drawn to the dip of his back, the point of his shoulders a sharply angled peak. His profile catches the light of late afternoon, golden and brilliant, the long line of his nose and the bow of his lips familiar and untouchable.
"Because when I look at you I can hear music," Jiyong whispers, and Seungri thinks about the swell of sound in an orchestra, the clean lines of dancers in motion, and the quick ink of Jiyong's pen on paper, verses and codas coming to life. In the bathroom, he looks at himself in the mirror clouded with the steam from his shower, and thinks, in the dead silence, that Jiyong is a liar.